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THE 


f(  RE  LAND. 


A Choice  Collection  of  Literary  Gems  from  the  Masterpieces  of  the 
Great  Irish  Writers,  with  Biographical  Sketches. 


BY  JOHN  O’KANE  MURRAY,  B.S., 

AUTHOR  OF 


tlA  Popular  History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  United  States “ Lessons  in  English 

Literature ” etc.,  etc. 


"No  people  who  do  not  often  look  back  to  their  ancestors  can  look  forward  to  posterity.” — EDMUND  BURKE. 
We  must  confine  ourselves  to  the  masterpieces  of  great  names ; we  have  not  time  for  the  rest.” — LaCORDAIRE. 


VITA  SINE  LLTERIS  MORS  EST. 


TENTH  EDITION. 


Ncto  Yorft: 

P.  J.  KENEDY,  PUBLISHER. 

1882. 


;u 


LIBRARY 


irnn  mi  t 


V.  A OCI 


Copyright,  1877,  by  Peter  F.  Collier. 


Ei)t  Jfrtst)  iptople 


AND 

THEIR  WORTHY  DESCENDANTS  IN  AMERICA— 

BRAVE,  BRIGHT,  HOBLE,  FAITHFUL,  AND  KIND-HEARTED  RACE — 

THIS  VOLUME  ON 

Crosse  antr  Jloettg  of  Dear  <2Mtf  ErelanB, 

IS  MOST  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  BY  THEIR  VERY  TRULY  AND  DEVOTEDLY, 

John  O’Kane  Murray. 

April,  1877. 


PREFACE. 


HY  this  book  ? Briefly,  because  it  is  intended  to  supply  a 


widely-felt  want ; because  there  is  no  other  work  of  the  kind  ; 
because  I earnestly  hope  it  will  do  some  good,  and  will  be  found  of 
value  in  thousands  of  homes  in  this  Republic. 

As  we  gaze  at  night  on  the  beautiful,  star-lit  firmament,  we  are 
struck  with  the  fact  that  star  differs  from  star  in  brightness.  And 
though  thousands  of  stars  dazzle  the  eye  with  their  twinkles,  yet  as- 
tronomers tell  us  that  there  are  but  twenty-two  whose  brightness 
and  splendor  entitle  them  to  be  called  “ stars  of  the  first  magni- 
tude.” So  it  is  in  the  world  of  letters.  There  are  thousands  of 
writers,  but  the  truly  great  ones  are  not  very  numerous. 

In  sweeping  our  somewhat  inexperienced  telescope  over  the  dis- 
tant literary  sky  of  Ireland,  we  fancied  that  we  saw  twenty-two 
shining  names,  whose  superior  brightness  could  not  be  mistaken. 
After  much  thought  and  careful  comparison,  we  set  them  down. 
They  are  the  twenty-two  authors  whose  writings  enrich  the  pages  of 
this  volume.  Of  course,  the  limited  size  of  the  book  compelled  us 
to  stop  somewhere,  and  the  suggestive  number  just  referred  to,  was, 
for  more  than  one  reason,  admirably  convenient. 

On  Ireland  and  the  Irish  race,  the  writings  of  these  illustrious 
men  and  women  reflect  immortal  honor.  It  is  my  firm  conviction 
that  no  other  nation  of  ancient  or  modern  times  can  point  to  twen- 
ty-two such  glorious  names  in  the  history  of  its  literature. 

"While  the  selections  are  very  choice,  and  are  made  on  the  princi- 
ples of  beauty  and  utility,  still  I hope  I have  not  failed  to  present 
an  agreeable  variety.  Here,  side  by  side,  can  be  found  the  familiar 
letter,  the  learned  lecture,  the  interesting  chapter  of  history,  the 
soul-stirring  speech,  the  charming  essay,  the  fascinating  tale,  and 
the  matchless  poem. 

The  plan  of  the  volume,  which  I am  free  to  say  was  not  hastily 
laid  down,  forced  me  to  exclude  many  famous  writers  whose  great 
merits  no  one  is  more  ready  to  recognize  than  myself. 

This  is  a book  for  the  people,  for  the  family.  It  is  a select  little 


4 


Preface. 


library  oj  Irish  literature  in  one  volume.  And,  if  I am  not  greatly 
mistaken,  it  will  prove  of  more  than  mere  passing  value,  above  all, 
to  the  Irish  and  their  descendants  in  the  United  States.  The 
young  will  find  it  rich  in  mental  nourishment,  and  even  the  aged 
and  the  learned  can  glean  something  from  its  pages.  The  father 
who  puts  this  work  into  the  hands  of  his  children — it  is  not  a book 
merely  to  look  at — and  sees  that  they  read  it,  will  do  much  to  de- 
velop a healthy  taste  for  good,  sound  literature,  to  enrich  and  elevate 
their  minds,  and  to  give  them  just  conceptions  of  Irish  wit  and 
worth  and  valor  and  genius. 

I feel  that  I can  confidently  commend  “ The  Prose  and  Poetry  of 
Ireland  ” to  Catholic  families  as  entirely  free  from  anything  dan- 
gerous to  faith  and  morals. 

Regardless  of  heavy  expense,  Mr.  P.  F.  Collier,  the  energetic  pub- 
lisher, is  issuing  it  in  a style  which,  indeed,  reflects  no  small  credit 
on  his  good  taste  and  enlightened  enterprise. 

For  kind  courtesies,  which  aided  me  not  a little  during  the  pre- 
paration of  this  volume,  1 return  my  warm  thanks  to  Rev.  M.  J. 
O’Farrell,  the  learned  and  devoted  pastor  of  St.  Peter’s  Church, 
New  York  City ; John  Savage,  LL.D.,  Fordham,  N.  Y. ; Aubrey 
De  Yere,  Esq.,  Curragh  Chase,  Adare,  Ireland  ; Sister  Mary  Francis 
Clare,  Kenmare  Convent,  Ireland  ; lion.  W.  E.  Robinson,  Brook- 
lyn, N.  Y. ; Mr.  J.  C.  Curtin,  editor  of  the  New  York  Tablet ; Rev. 
Brother  Justinian,  Director  of  the  Christian  Brothers,  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y.  ; and  last,  though  not  least,  to  my  sister.  Miss  Murray,  and 
to  my  brothers,  Mr.  B.  P.  Murray  and  Mr.  J.  J.  Murray. 

I cannot  better  conclude  these  prefatory  remarks  than  by  quoting 
the  words  of  two  of  the  greatest  minds  that  ever  shed  a lustre  on 
the  history  of  the  Catholic  Church : 

“The  reading  of  literary  masterpieces,”  writes  the  great  and 
pious  Lacordaire,  “ not  only  forms  the  taste,  but  it  keeps  the  soul 
in  elevated  regions  and  prevents  it  from  sinking  down  into  vul- 
garity. ” 

“ Literature,”  says  the  illustrious  Pope  Leo  X.,  “ is  the  ornament 
and  glory  of  the  Church.  I have  always  remarked  that  it  knits  its 
cultivators  more  firmly  to  the  dogmas  of  our  faith.” 


Brooklyn,  L.  I.,  April  14,  1877. 


J.  O’K.  M. 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

Biographical  Index,  ......  . . . 0 . 6 

Introductory  Remarks,  ..........  9 

Chronological  Table  of  Irish  Writers,  . . ...  . . .10 

St.  Columbkille. 

Life  of, 13 

Selections  from  his  Poems,  .........  27 

Rev.  Brother  Michael  O’Clery,  O.S.F. 

Life  of, 89 

Selections  from  “ The  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,  ” ....  48 

Sir  Richard  Steele. 

Life  of,  ............  89 

Selections  from  his  Writings, 95 

Rev.  Jonathan  Swift,  H.H. 

Life  of,  ............  117 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  . 148 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  M.H. 

Life  of, 192 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  . 197 

Sir  Philip  Francis. 

Life  of, 274 

Selections  from  the  “ Letters  of  Junius,”  ......  277 

Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke. 

Life  of, 294 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  300 

Right  Hon.  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 

Life  of, 314 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  ........  320 

Right  Hon.  Henry  Grattan. 

Life  of.  ............  331 

Selections  from  his  Speeches,  338 

Right  Rev.  Hr.  Hoyle,  O.S.A. 

Life  of, 357 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  ........  364 

5 


6 


Contents . 


Gerald  Griffin.  page 

Life  of, 383 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  388 

John  Banim. 

Life  of, 412 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  . , . . . . , .417 

Thomas  Davis,  M.R.I.A. 

Life  of, 441 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  .......  444 

Daniel  O’Connell,  M.P. 

Life  of, ......  463 

Selections  from  his  Speeches  and  Letters,  ......  468 

Right  Hon.  Richard  Lalor  Sheil. 

Life  of, 483 

Selections  from  his  Speeches  and  Writings, 485 

Thomas  Moore, 

Life  of,  ............  502 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  .......  509 

Professor  Eugene  O’Curry,  M R.I.A. 

Life  of, 627 

Selections  from  his  Lectures,  ........  630 

Hon.  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,  B.C.L. 

Life  of, 651 

Selections  from  his  Writings,  . 656 

Most  Rev.  John  MacHale,  D.D. 

Life  of, *......  670 

Selections  from  his  Grace’s  Writings,  .......  675 

Mrs.  James  Sadlier, 

Life  of, 690 

Selections  from  her  Writings 692 

Rev.  Sister  Mary  Francis  Clare. 

Life  of, 710 

Brief  selections  from  her  Writings,  712 

Very  Rev.  Thomas  N.  Burke,  O.P. 

Life  of, 717 

Selections  from  his  “Lectures,” 719 

Miscellany, 741 


***  For  any  particular,  poem,  essay,  lecture,  etc.,  consult  General  Index  at 
the  close  of  the  volume. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INDEX, 


PASS 

Banim,  John,  ............  412 

Burke,  Edmund, 294 

Burke,  Very  Rev.  T.  N., 717 

Clare,  Sister  Mary  Francis, 710 

Columbkille,  St., 13 

Davis,  Thomas, 441 

Doyle,  Right  Rev.  James,  . . . *. 357 

Francis,  Sir  Philip, 274 

Grattan,  Henry, 331 

Goldsmith,  Oliver, 192 

Griffin,  Gerald,  383 

McGee,  Thomas  D’Arcy, .651 

MacHale,  Most  Rev.  John, 670 

Moore,  Thomas, 502 

O’Clery,  Michael, 39 

O’Connell,  Daniel, 463 

O’Curry,  Eugene, 627 

Sadlier,  Mrs.  J.,  . R . . 690 

Sheil,  Richard  Lalor, 483 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley, 314 

Steele,  Sir  Richard, 89 

Swift,  Rev,  Jonathan,  117 


***  See  General  Index  at  the  end  of  the  volume  for  the  writers  whose  poems 
are  given  in  the  Miscellany. 

If 


INTRODUCTORY  REMARKS. 


TT  is  not  our  intention  to  weary  the  reader  with  a long  introduce 
tion.  A few  words  must  suffice. 

“ Every  remarkable  man,”  writes  Lacordaire,  “has  been  fond  of 
letters.”  The  same  can  be  said  of  every  remarkable  nation. 

The  Irish  have  always  been  a literary  people.  To  song  and 
legend  and  history  they  have  clung  through  sunshine  and  shadow 
with  the  same  lofty  tenacity  as  to  faith  and  fatherland. 

No  misfortune  has  been  able  to  dull  the  Irish  mind,  however  it 
might  check  its  expression.  War  with  the  Danes  failed.  War 
with  the  Saxon  and  Norman  failed.  The  loss  of  national  inde- 
pendence failed.  Penal  laws  failed.  The  whole  infernal  ma- 
chinery of  English  tyranny  failed.  In  short,  everything  failed. 
This  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  history. 

If  we  would  understand  the  philosophy  of  such  a singular  fact, 
we  must  view  the  Irish  race  from  both  a natural  and  a supernatural 
standpoint.  The  true  Celt  is,  above  all  other  men,  gifted  with  fine 
sentiments,  generous  impulses,  and  a capacity  to  admire  the  good, 
the  beautiful,  the  sublime.  Thus,  by  nature,  he  is  a lover  of  litera- 
ture. But  there  is  a still  higher  view  to  be  taken.  The  Catholic 
religion  harmonizes  with  his  nature,  at  the  same  time  that  it  ele- 
vates his  mind  and  spiritualizes  his  faculties.  Nature  and  religion 
have  thus  combined  to  mould  his  genius.  St.  Columbkille  is  an 
illustration. 

The  glory  of  a nation  is  her  illustrious  sons.  When  their  manly 
frames  and  splendid  intellects  have  passed  away,  still  their  bright 

memories*  like  so  many  stars,  illumine  the  national  firmament.  As 

9 


IO 


Introductory  Remarks . 


a precious  inheritance,  their  noble  deeds  and  inspiring  words  pass 
down  to  posterity,  and  the  influence  of  their  careers  is  felt  to  the 
last  day  of  a nation’s  existence. 

“ A nation’s  greatness  lies  in  men,  not  acres  ; 

One  master-mind  is  worth  a million  hands  ; 

No  kingly  robes  have  marked  the  planet- shakers, 

But  Samson-strength  to  burst  the  ages’  bands.”' 

This  is  especially  true  of  the  great  writers,  the  rulers  of  thought, 
the  men  who  have  given  to  the  world  “ truths  that  wake  to  perish 
never,”  men  who  evermore  influence  the  destinies  of  the  human 
race. 


1 John  Boyle  O’Beilly,  “ A Nation’s  Test.1 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE  OF  IRISH  WRITERS. 


Name.  Date  of  Death.  Chief  Work. 

Oisin(also  written  Ossian) 3d  lent  y..  Fenian  Poems. 

Dubththach  O’Lugair 5th  ..Poems. 

St.  Columbkille 597 Poems. 

St.  Fiaec. 6th  Cent’y.  Metrical  Life  of  St.  Patrick. 

St.  Simhin  6th  “ .Tripartite  Life  of  St.  Patrick. 

St.  Evin  Life  of  St.  Bridget. 

St.  Adamnan 703 Life  of  St.  Columbkille. 

John  Scotus  Eregina 875  (about). Works  on  Philosophy  and  Theology. 

Cormac  Cullinan 903 Psalter  of  Cashel. 

M.  O’Carroll 1009 Annals  of  Inisfallen. 

Flann 1056 Synchronisms 

Gilla  Caemhain 1072  Chronological  Poem. 

Tighernach 1088 Annals  of  Tighernach. 

Cathal  Maguire 1498  Annals  of  Ulster. 

Most  Rev  Florence  Conroy,  D.D 1629 Compendium  of  St.  Augustine’s  Works. 

Most  Rev.  Peter  Lombard,  D.D 1632.... Commentary  on  Irish  History. 

Rev.  Hugh  Ward,  O S.F 1635 .Irish  Martyrology. 

Rev.  Brother  Michael  O’Clery,  O. S.F. 1643 Annals  of  the  Four  Masters. 

Rev.  Geoffrey  Keating,  D.D  1844  History  of  Ireland. 

James  Ussher,  D.D 1653  Antiquities  of  the  British  Churches. 

Rev.  Luke  Wadding  O.S.F 1657.... Annals  of  the  Friars  Minor. 

Rev.  John  Colgan,  O.S.F 1658 Lives  of  the  Irish  Saints. 

Right  Rev.  John  Lynch,  D D 17thCen’y.Cambrensis  Eversus. 

Sir  James  Ware 1666 Lives  of  the  Irish  Bishops. 

Duald  Mac  Firbis 1670 The  Book  of  Mac  Firbis. 

Right  Rev.  Nicholas  French 1678 Sale  and  Settlement  of  Ireland. 

William  Molyneaux 1698 The  Case  of  Ireland  Stated. 

Roderick  O’Flaherty 1718 Ogygia. 

Sir  Richard  Steele 1729 Essays. 

Jonathan  Swift,  D D 1745 Gulliver’s  Travels. 

Rev.  Abbe  MacGeoghegan 1750 History  of  Ireland. 

Bishop  Berkeley,  D.D 1753 The  Minute  Philosopher. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  1772 The  Deserted  Village 

Edmund  Burke 1797. .... . .Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  Franca, 

Richard  B.  Sheridan. 1816 The  School  for  Scandal. 

John  Philpot  Curran 1817 Speeches. 

Sir  Philip  Francis 1818 Letters  of  Junius. 

Henry  Grattan 1820  Speeches. 

Right.  Rev.  Dr.  Doyle,  O.S.A..  1834 Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland. 

Sir  Jonah  Barrington Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Irish  Nation. 

Matthew  Carey 1839 Ireland  Vindicated. 

Clerald  Griffin  1840. The  Collegians. 

John  Banim  1842 The  Boyne  Water. 

Right  Rev.  Dr.  England. 1842  Essays  on  Various  Subjects. 

William  Maginn,  LL.D 1842 Miscellanies. 

Thomas  Davis,  M.R.I.A 1845 Poems  and  Essays. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere 1846 Julian,  the  Apostate. 

Daniel  O’Connell 1847 Speeches. 

James  Clarence  Mangan 1849 .Poems. 

Lady  Blessington 1849  Many  volumes  of  fiction. 

Richard  Lalor  Sheil 1851 Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar. 

Thomas  Moore 1852 Irish  Melodies. 


ii 


12 


Chronological  Table  of  Irish  Writers . 


Name.  Date  of  Death.  Chief  Work. 

Most  Rev  Dr.  Murray 1854 Sermons. 

Lady  Morgan 1859 O’Donnell. 

Rev.  George  Croly,  LL.D 1860 Life  of  Burke. 

Mrs.  A.  Jamieson 1860  The  Poetry  of  sacred  and  Legendary  Art. 

John  O’Donovan,  LL.D 1861 . . Grammar  of  the  Irish  Language. 

Eugene  O’Curry,  M.R.I  A 1862 Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Irish 

History. 

Richard  Dalton  Williams 1862 Poems. 

MostRev.  Dr  Hughes 1863 Lectures,  Essays,  etc. 

Most  Rev.  F.  P.  Kenrick,  D.D 1864 Primacy  of  the  Apostolic  See. 

Rev.  Francis  Makony 1866 Reliques  of  Father  Prout. 

T.  D.  McGee,  B.C.L 1867 History  of  Ireland. 

T.  F.  Meagher,  LL.D 1867  Speeches. 

Rev.  Mr.  Boyce Shandy  McGuire. 

Samuel  Lover 1868 Poems. 

Rev.  Dr.  Cahill Letters  and  Lectures. 

Henry  Giles Lectures  and  Essays. 

William  Carleton 1872 The  Poor  Scholar. 

Charles  J.  Lever,  M.D ..  ...-1872.... Charles  O’Malley. 

John  Francis  Maguire,  M.P The  Irish  in  America. 

Rev.  Dr.  P.  E.  Moriarty,  O.S.A 1875 Life  of  St.  Augustine. 

JohnMitchel 1875 History  of  Ireland. 

Most  Rev.  John  MacHale,  D.D Letters,  etc. 

Mrs.  J.  Sadlier The  Confederate  Chieftains. 

Rev.  T.  N.  Burke,  OP Lectures. 

Sister  Mary  Francis  Clare History  of  the  Irish  Nation. 

Robert  Joyce,  M.D Deirdre. 

Aubrey  de  Yere Alexander  the  Great. 

D.  F.  MacCarthy . Poems. 

John  Savage,  LL.D  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly Songs  from  the  Southern  Seas. 

Lady  Wilde Poems. 

A.  M.  Sullivan Poems,  etc. 

Rev.  Dr.  Patrick  Murray Poems  and  Theological  Works. 

W.  J.  Fitzpatrick,  J.P Life  and  Times  of  Dr.  Doyle. 

William  Collins Ballads,  Poems,  and  Songs. 

Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall Lights  and  Shadows  of  Irish  Life. 

Sir  C.  G.  Duffy Poems,  etc. 

Thomas  Mooney Lectures  on  Irish  History. 

Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan,  M.R.I. A O’Neill  and  O’Donnell. 

R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  D.C.L Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  etc. 

R.  R.  Maddan,  M.D Lives  of  the  United  Irishmen. 

John  Cornelius  O’Oallaghan,  M.R.I. A History  of  the  Irish  Brigade. 

E.  B.  O’ Callaghan,  LL.D History  of  the  New  Netherlands. 

Rev.  A.  J.  O’Reilly Martyrs  of  the  Colosseum. 

Rev.  Stephen  Byrne,  O.  P Irish  Emigration. 

Rev.  William  Gleeson,  M.A History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  Cali- 

fornia. 

MostRev.  Peter  R.  Kenrick,  D.D Holy  House  of  Loretto. 

Rev.  C.  W.  Russell,  D.D Life  of  Cardinal  Mezzofanti. 

John  P.  Prendergast Cromwellian  Settlement  of  Ireland. 

Most  Rev.  John  B.  Purcell,  D.D Campbell  and  Purcell  Debate. 

Sir  Robert  Kane Resources  of  Ireland. 

W.  B.  MacCabe History  of  England. 

W.  J.  O’Neill  Daunt Recollections  of  O’Connell. 

Martin  Haverty History  of  Ireland. 

Hon.  William  E.  Robinson The  Irish  Element  in  America. 


THE 


Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


POET,  MONK,  APOSTLE  OF  SCOTLAND,  AND  PRINCE  OF  IRISH 

MISSIONARIES. 


“ Columbkille  was  born  a poet  and  remained  a poet  to  the  last  day  of  his 
life.”— Count  de  Montalembert. 


T.  COLUMBKILLE,  one  of  the  most  famous  of  Irish  saints, 


poets,  and  missionaries,  was  born  at  Gartan,  a wild  district 
in  the  county  of  Donegal,  on  December  7,  a.d.  521. 1 His  father 
was  descended  from  the  great  King  Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages,2 
who  was  supreme  monarch  of  Ireland  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  cen- 
tury. Before  his  birth,  his  mother,  who  belonged  to  a distinguished 
family  in  Leinster,  had  a dream  which  posterity  has  accepted  as  a 
graceful  and  poetical  symbol  of  her  son’s  career.  An  angel  appear- 
ed to  her,  bringing  her  a veil  covered  with  flowers  of  wonderful 
beauty  and  the  sweetest  variety  of  colors.  Immediately  after  she  saw 
the  veil  carried  away  by  the  wind,  and  rolling  out  as  it  fled  over 

1 “ The  slab  of  stone,”  writes  Montalembert,  “ upon  which  his  mother  lay  at  the  moment 
of  his  birth  is  still  shown.  He  who  passes  a night  upon  that  stone  is  cured  for  ever  from 
the  pangs  of  homesickness,  and  will  never  be  consumed,  while  absent  or  in  exile,  by  a 
too  passionate  love  for  his  country.  Such , at  least,  is  the  belief  of  the  poor  Irish  emigrants, 
who  flock  thither  at  the  moment  when  they  are  about  to  abandon  the  confiscated  and 
ravaged  soil  of  their  country  to  seek  their  living  in  America,  moved  by  a touching  recol- 
lection of  the  great  missionary  who  gave  up  his  native  land  for  the  love  of  God  and  hu- 
man souls.”—”  Monks  of  the  West,”  vol.  ii.,  Am.  ed. 

Gartan  is  about  the  centre  of  the  County.  It  is  noted  in  the  “ Map  of  the  Localities 
and  Titles  of  the  Principal  Old  Irish  Families,”  in  the  Nun  of  Kenmare’s  “ Illustrated 
History  of  Ireland.” 

2 Because  of  the  hostages  taken  from  nine  several  powers,  whioh  he  subdued  and 
made  tributary. 


ST.  COLUMBKILLE , 


13 


14 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


plains,  woods,  and  mountains.  Then  the  angel  said  to  her  : “ Thou 
art  about  to  become  the  mother  of  a son  who  shall  blossom  for 
heaven,  who  shall  be  reckoned  among  the  prophets  of  God,  and 
who  shall  lead  numberless  souls  to  the  heavenly  country.  ” 3 

This  saintly  and  illustrious  man  has  been  very  fortunate  in  his 
biographers.  His  life,  written  by  his  cousin  and  ninth  successor,  St. 
Adamnan,  is  one  of  the  most  charming  narratives  in  all  early  Chris- 
tian literature  ; 4 and  the  story  of  his  career  told  in  our  own  day  by 
the  gifted  and  learned  Count  de  Montalembert  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  productions  to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  Cath- 
olic biography. 5 

In  common  with  many  other  Irish  saints,  our  poet-monk  bore  a 
name  borrowed  from  the  Latin,  a name  signifying  the  dove  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  By  Irish  writers,  however,  he  is  nearly  always  called 
Columbkille,  or  dove  of  the  cell.  We  use  this  name  as  that  by 
which  he  is  best  known. 

The  priest  who  baptized  the  child  also  gave  him  the  first  rudi- 
ments of  knowledge.  From  his  earliest  years  Columbkille  was 
accustomed  to  heavenly  visions.  Often,  when  his  guardian  angel 
would  appear  to  him,  the  child  would  ask  if  all  the  angels  in  heaven 
were  as  young  and  shining  as  he. 

He  afterwards  passed  into  the  great  monastic  schools,  which  were 
nurseries  not  only  for  the  clergy  of  Ireland,  but  also  for  young  lay- 
men of  all  conditions.  Here  manual  toil  was  joined  to  study  and 
prayer.  Like  all  his  young  companions,  Columbkille  had  to  grind 
over  night  the  corn  for  the  next  day’s  food  ; but  when  his  turn 
came,  it  was  so  well  and  quickly  done  that  his  companions  suspected 
him  of  having  been  assisted  by  an  angel. 6 Having  completed  his 
education  and  monastic  training,  he  was  ordained  by  his  revered 

3 “ The  Monks  of  the  West,  ” vol.  ii. 

4 The  “ Life  of  St.  Columbkille,”  by  Adamnan,  ninth  Abbot  of  Iona,  is  written  in  Latin^ 
Twenty  years  ago  it  was  reprinted  after  a MS.  of  the  eighth  century,  and  edited  by  Rev.  Dr. 
Reeves,  of  Ballymena,  for  the  Celtic  Archaeological  Society  of  Dublin.  “ Adamnan’ s Me- 
moir,” writes  Rev.  Dr.  Reeves,  “ is  to  be  prized  as  an  inestimable  literary  relic  of  the 
Irish  Church — perhaps  the  most  valuable  monument  of  that  institution  which  has  escap- 
ed the  ravage  of  time  ” (p.  36,  Preface),  and  the  Protestant  divine  might  have  added,  of 
England. 

Adamnan,  which  is  the  diminutive  of  Adam,  is  a name  of  rare  occurrence  in  Irish  records. 
His  life  of  St.  Columbkille  begins  thus  : “ In  nomine  Jem  Christi  orditur  Picefatio." 

5 The  Count  de  Montalembert’s  life  of  our  Saint  takes  up  108  pages  of  vol.  ii.  “ Monks  of 
the  West,  ” in  which  he  is  invariably  called  Colvmba . We  make  free  use  of  it  in  our 
brief  sketch. 

6 O'Donnell,  i.  42,  quoted  by  Montalembert. 


6V.  Columbkille, 


15 


master,  the  Abbot  Finnian,  founder  of  the  renowned  monastic 
school  of  Clonard. 

An  incident  is  related  of  his  student  career  at  Clonard,  when  he 
was  only  a deacon.  An  old  Bard  came  to  live  near  the  monastery. 
Columbkille,  who  at  all  times  in  life  was  a passionate  admirer  of 
Irish  poetry,  determined  to  join  the  school  of  the  Bard  and  to  share 
his  labors  and  his  studies.  One  day  the  two  were  reading  to- 
gether, at  a little  distance  apart,  out  of  doors.  A young  girl  ran  to- 
wards them,  pursued  by  a robber.  She,  no  doubt,  hoped  to  find 
safety  in  the  old  Bard’s  authority.  The  latter  called  to  his  pupil 
for  assistance.  Scarcely,  however,  had  the  girl  reached  the  spot 
than  her  pursuer,  coming  up,  struck  her  with  his  lance,  and  she 
fell  dead  at  their  feet.  “ How  long,”  exclaimed  the  horrified  old 
man  to  Columbkille,  “will  God  leave  unpunished  this  crime  which 
dishonors  us  ? ” “For  this  moment  only,”  replied  the  indignant 
young  monk — “not  longer.  At  this  very  hour,  when  the  soul  of 
this  innocent  creature  ascends  to  heaven,  the  soul  of  the  murderer 
shall  go  down  to  hell ! ” Scarcely  were  the  words  pronounced, 
when  the  wretched  assassin  fell  dead. 

Soon,  far  and  wide,  Columbkille’s  name  became  famous.  Closely 
allied  to  the  reigning  monarch  of  all  Ireland,  and  eligible  himself  to 
the  same  high  office,  it  was  very  natural  that  his  influence  increased 
with  his  years.  Before  he  reached  the  age  of  twenty-five,  he  had 
presided  over  the  erection  of  a crowd  of  monasteries.  Of  these 
the  chief  were  Durrow  and  Derry.  He  was  especially  attached  to 
Derry.  In  the  poem  attributed  to  his  old  age  he  says  so  patheti- 
cally : 

“Were  all  the  tribute  of  Scotia  mine. 

From  its  midland  to  its  borders, 

I would  give  all  for  one  little  cell 
In  my  beautiful  Derry. 

For  its  peace  and  for  its  purity, 

For  the  white  angels  that  go 
In  crowds  from  one  end  to  the  other, 

I love  my  beautiful  Derry  ! ” 

Columbkille  was  as  much  a bard  as  a monk  during  the  first  part 
of  his  life  ; and  he  had  the  roving,  ardent,  agitated,  and  even  quar- 
relsome character  of  the  race.  He  had  also  a passion  for  travelling, 
but  a still  greater  one  for  books.  Indeed,  his  intense  love  of  books 
brought  him  more  than  one  misadventure.  He  went  everywhere  in 


1 6 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

search  of  volumes  which  he  could  borrow  or  copy,  often  experienc- 
ing refusals  that  he  bitterly  resented.  At  the  time  of  which  we 
write,  there  was  in  Ossory  a holy  recluse,  very  learned  doctor  in 
laws  and  philosophy,  named  Longarad.  Columbkille  paid  him  a 
visit,  and  asked  leave  to  examine  his  books.  A direct  refusal  was 
given  by  the  old  man.  “ May  thy  books,”  exclaimed  Columbkille, 
“no  longer  do  thee  any  good,  neither  to  thee  nor  to  those  who  come 
after  thee,  since  thou  takest  occasion  by  them  to  show  thy  inhospi- 
tality.” This  curse  was  heard,  according  to  the  legend.  As  soon 
as  old  Longarad  died  his  books  became  unintelligible.  “They 
still  exist,”  says  an  author  of  the  ninth  century,  “but  no  man  can 
read  them  ! ” 

Another  narrative  in  the  career  of  our  poet-monk  leads  us  to  the 
decisive  event  which  for  ever  changed  his  destiny,  and  transformed 
him  from  a wandering  poet  and  ardent  book-worm  into  a great  mis- 
sionary and  apostle.  While  visiting  his  old  master,  the  Abbot  Fin- 
nian,  Columbkille  found  means  to  make  a secret  and  hurried  copy  of 
the  Abbot’s  Psalter  by  shutting  himself  up  at  night  in  the  church 
where  it  was  deposited,  and  illuminating  his  work  by  the  light 
which  escaped  from  his  left  hand,  while  he  wrote  with  the  right. 
The  Abbot  Finnian  discovered  what  was  going  on  by  means  of  a 
curious  wanderer,  who,  attracted  by  that  singular  light,  looked  in 
through  the  keyhole.  The  wanderer’s  curiosity,  however,  met  with 
swift  punishment.  While  his  face  was  pressed  against  the  door,  he 
had  his  eye  suddenly  torn  out  by  a crane,  one  of  those  familiar 
birds  that  were  permitted  by  the  Irish  monks  to  seek  a home  in 
their  churches.7 

Finnian  was  indignant  at  what  he  considered  a theft,  and  claimed 
the  copy  when  it  was  finished,  on  the  ground  that  a copy  made 
without  permission  ought  to  belong  to  the  master  of  the  original, 
seeing  that  the  transcription  is  but  the  child  of  the  original  book. 
Columbkille  refused  to  give  up  his  work,  and  the  question  was 
referred  to  the  king  in  his  palace  at  Tara. 

King  Diarmid,  at  that  time  supreme  monarch  of  Ireland,  was 
descended  from  the  famous  Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  and,  con- 
sequently, related  to  Columbkille.  However,  he  pronounced  against 
his  kinsman.  The  king’s  decision  was  given  in  a rustic  phrase  which 
has  passed  into  a proverb  in  Ireland — To  every  cow  her  calf  I and, 

7 O’Donnell,  book  ii.,  quoted  by  Montalembert. 

8 “ Le  gach  boin  a boinln , le  gach  leabhar  a leabhran .” 


St.  Columbkille. 


17 


therefore,  to  every  book  its  copy.  Loudly  did  Columbkille  protest. 
“It  is  an  unjust  sentence,”  he  exclaimed,  “and  I will  revenge 
myself.”  Shortly  after  this  another  event  occurred  which  still 
more  irritated  the  poet-monk.  A young  prince,  son  of  the  King 
of  Connaught,  having  transgressed  in  some  way,  took  refuge  with 
Columbkille,  but  was  seized  and  put  to  death  by  order  of  King 
Diarmid.  With  prompt  vengeance  Columbkille  threatened  the 
supreme  monarch.  “ I will  denounce  to  my  brethren  and  my 
kindred,  thy  wicked  judgment,”  he  said,  “ and  the  violation  in  my 
person  of  the  immunity  of  the  Church  ; they  will  listen  to  my  com- 
plaint and  punish  thee,  sword  in  hand.  Bad  king,  thou  shalt  no 
more  see  my  face  in  thy  province  until  God,  the  just  Judge,  has 
subdued  thy  pride.  As  thou  hast  humbled  me  to-day  before  thy 
lords  and  thy  friends,  God  will  humble  thee  on  the  battle  day 
before  thine  enemies  ! ” Diarmid  attempted  to  retain  him  by 
force,  but,  evading  the  guards,  Columbkille  escaped  by  night  from 
Tara,  and  directed  his  steps  to  his  native  province  of  Tirconnell. 
As  he  went  on  his  lonely  way,  his  soul  found  utterance  in  a pious 
song  — “The  Song  of  Trust,”*  “which,”  writes  Montalembert, 
“has  been  preserved  to  us,  and  which  may  be  reckoned  among  the 
most  authentic  relics  of  the  ancient  Irish  tongue.” 8 *  10 

Columbkille  arrived  safely  in  his  native  province  ; the  powerful 
clans  of  Ulster  were  aroused  as  one  man,  and  the  aid  of  the  King 
of  Connaught,  the  father  of  the  executed  young  prince,  was  easily 
obtained.  The  combined  forces  marched  against  Diarmid,  who 
met  them  on  the  borders  of  Ulster  and  Connaught.  The  battle 
was  short.  Diarmid’s  army  was  routed,  and  he  fled,  taking  refuge 
at  Tara.11  According  to  the  historian  Tighernach,  the  victory  was 
due  to  the  prayers  and  hymns  of  Columbkille,  who  for  days  had 
fasted  and  prayed  to  obtain  from  Heaven  the  punishment  of  royal 
insolence,  and  who  besides  was  present  at  the  battle,  and  took  upon 
himself  before  all  men  the  responsibility  of  the  blood  shed. 12 

“As  to  the  manuscript,”  says  Montalembert,  “ which  had  been 
the  object  of  this  strange  conflict  of  copyright  elevated  into  a civil 

8 See  page  36. 

10  “ The  Monks  of  the  West,”  vol.  ii.,  Am.  ed. 

11  Cul-Dreimhne,  where  this  battle  was  fought,  is  in  the  barony  of  Carbury,  to  the  north 

of  the  town  of  Sligo.  The  battle  is  mentioned  in  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  in 
which  it  is  stated  that  “three  thousand  was  the  number  that  fell  of  Diarmid’s  people. 
One  man  only  fell  on  the  other  side.”  Vol.  i.,  p.  195. 

is  “ The  Monks  of  the  West,”  vol.  ii.,  Am.  ed. 


18  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

war,  it  was  afterward  venerated  as  a kind  of  national,  military,  and 
religious  palladium.  Under  the  name  of  Cathac,  or  Fighter,  the 
Latin  Psalter  transcribed  by  Columbkille,  enshrined  in  a sort  of  por- 
table altar,  became  the  national  relic  of  the  O’Donnell  clan.  For 
more  than  a thousand  years  it  was  carried  with  them  to  battle  as 
a pledge  of  victory,  on  the  condition  of  being  supported  upon  the 
breast  of  a cleric  pure  from  all  mortal  sin.  It  has  escaped  as  by 
miracle  from  the  ravages  of  which  Ireland  has  been  the  victim,  and 
exists  still,  to  the  great  joy  of  all  learned  Irish  patriots.”  11 

Columbkille  was  victorious.  But  victory  is  not  always  peace. 
He  soon  felt  the  double  reaction  of  personal  remorse  and  the 
condemnation  of  many  pious  souls.  In  the  synod  of  Teilte,14  held 
an  562,  he  was  accused  of  having  occasioned  the  shedding  of  Chris- 
tian blood.  Though  absent,  he  was  excommunicated.  Columb- 
kille, however,  was  not  a man  to  draw  back  before  his  accusers 
and  judges.  He  suddenly  presented  himself  to  the  synod,  which 
had  struck  without  hearing  him.  In  the  famous  Abbot  Brendan 
he  found  a defender.  When  the  poet-monk  made  his  appearance, 
this  Abbot  rose,  went  to  meet  him,  and  embraced  him.  “ How 
can  you,”  said  some  members  of  the  synod,  “give  the  kiss  of 
peace  to  an  excommunicated  man  ? ” “You  would  do  as  I have 
done,”  answered  Brendan,  “and  you  would  never  have  excommu- 
nicated him,  had  you  seen  what  I see — a pillar  of  fire  which  goes 
before  him,  and  the  angels  that  accompany  him.  I dare  not  dis- 
dain a man  predestined  by  God  to  be  the  guide  of  an  entire  people 
to  eternal  life.”  The  synod  withdrew  the  sentence  of  excommuni- 
cation, but  Columbkille  was  charged  to  win  to  Christ  by  his 
preaching  as  many  pagan  souls  as  the  number  of  Christians  who 
had  fallen  in  the  battle  which  he  had  occasioned. 

The  soul  of  the  poet-monk  was  troubled.  The  voice  of  an  accus- 
ing conscience  touched  his  heart.  He  wandered  from  solitude  to 

13  The  casket  in  which  this  precious  MS.  is  preserved  was  made  towards  the  11th  cen- 
tury by  the  head  of  the  clan,  Cathbar  O’Donnell.  Towards  the  close  of  the  17th  century 

: the  Catliac  came  into  the  possession  of  Daniel  O'Donnell,  who  raised  a regiment  in  Ire- 
land for  James  II.,  and  afterwards  attained  the  rank  of  Brigadier-General  in  the  service 
of  France.  This  wonderful  book  remained  on  the  Continent  until  1802,  when  it  was  trans- 
ferred to  a nobleman  of  the  name  of  O’Donnell,  who  resided  at  Newport,  county  of 
Mayo.  It  is  now  to  be  seen  in  the  library  of  the  Eoyal  Irish  Academy,  Dublin,  and  con- 
sists of  fifty-eight  pages  of  vellum  manuscript,  somewhat  damaged  at  the  commence- 
ment. A fac-simile  of  a portion  of  one  of  its  pages  can  be  seen  in  the  appendix  to 
O’Curry’s  “ Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Irish  History”  and  in  the  Nun  of  Ken- 
. mare’s  “ Illustrated  History  of  Ireland.” 

14  Now  Teltown,  a little  village  in  the  county  of  Meath. 


St.  Columbkiile . 


19 


solitude,  from  monastery  to  monastery,  seeking  masters  of  Christian 
virtue,  and  asking  them  anxiously  what  he  should  do  to  obtain  the 
pardon  of  God  for  the  murder  of  so  many  victims.  At  length,  he 
found  a holy  monk  called  Abban,  to  whom  he  poured  out  the  troubles 
of  his  soul.  To  Columbkille’s  enquiries  Abban  assured  him  that 
the  souls  of  those  killed  in  the  battle  enjoyed  eternal  repose  ; and, 
as  his  confessor,  he  condemned  him  to  perpetual  exile  from  Ireland. 
“ What  you  have  commanded,”  said  Columbkiile,  “ shall  be  done.” 

Now  begins  the  second  and  grandest  period  of  Columbkille’s 
life.  Taking  a loving  leave  of  his  warlike  kindred,  to  whom  he  was 
intensely  attached,  he  directed  his  course  towards  Scotland,  to  be- 
gin his  labors  among  the  heathen  Piets.  Twelve  of  his  devoted 
disciples  accompanied  him ; and  thus,  at  the  age  of  forty-two,  our 
poet-monk  bade  a last  adieu  to  his  native  land.  Their  bark  put  in 
at  that  little  isle  which  he  has  immortalized,  and  which  took  from 
him  the  name  of  I-Colm-Kill  (the  island  of  Columbkiile),  now  better 
known  as  Iona.lb  On  this  small  spot,  surrounded  by  sombre  seas, 
overshadowed  by  the  bare  and  lofty  peaks  of  other  islands,  and  with 
a wild  beauty  to  be  seen  in  the  far  distance,  Columbkiile,  poet, 
prince,  monk,  and  missionary,  founded  the  first  monastery  in  Scot- 
land, and  began  the  gigantic  labors  of  a life  more  than  heroic, 
more  than  apostolic.  Over  thirteen  hundred  years  ago  this  became 
the  monastic  capital  and  the  centre  of  Christian  civilization  in  North 
Britain. 

Columbkiile  became  transformed  into  a new  man.  He  whom  we 
have  seen  so  passionate,  so  irritable,  so  warlike  and  vindictive,  grew, 
little  by  little,  the  most  gentle,  tender,  and  humble  of  friends  and 
fathers.  It  was  he,  the  illustrious  head  of  the  Caledonian  Church, 
who,  kneeling  before  strangers  that  came  to  Iona,  or  before  the 
monks  returning  from  their  work,  took  off  their  shoes,  washed  their 
feet,  and,  after  having  washed  them,  respectfully  kissed  them.  But 
charity  was  still  stronger  than  humility  in  that  transfigured  soul. 
No  necessity,  spiritual  or  temporal,  found  him  indifferent.  He 
devoted  himself  to  the  solace  of  all  infirmities,  all  misery  and  pain, 
often  weeping  over  those  who  did  not  weep  for  themselves. 

In  the  midst  of  the  new  community  Columbkiile  inhabited,  in- 
stead of  a cell,  a sort  of  hut  built  of  planks,  and  placed  upon  the 
most  elevated  spot  within  the  monastic  enclosure.  Up  to  the  age 


16  It  is  only  three  miles  long  by  about  two  in  width. 


20 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


of  seventy-six  he  slept  there  upon  the  hard  floor  with  a stone  for  his 
pillow.  This  hut  was  at  once  his  study  and  his  oratory.  It  was 
there  that  he  gave  himself  up  to  those  prolonged  prayers  which  e> 
cited  the  admiration,  and  almost  the  alarm,  of  his  disciples.  It  was 
there  that  he  returned  after  sharing  the  out-door  labor  of  his  monks 
like  the  least  among  them,  to  consecrate  the  rest  of  his  time  to  the 
study  of  Holy  Scripture  and  the  transcription  of  the  sacred  text. 

The  work  of  transcription  remained  until  his  last  day  the  occu- 
pation of  his  old  age,  as  it  had  been  the  passion  of  his  youth.  It 
had  such  an  attraction  for  him,  and  seemed  to  him  so  essential  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  truth,  that  three  hundred  copies  of  the  Holy 
Gospel,  written  by  his  own  hand,  have  been  ascribed  to  him. 16 

It  was  in  the  same  hut  that  he  received  with  unwearied  patience 
and  gentle  courtesy  the  hundreds  of  visitors,  of  high  and  low  de- 
gree, who  flocked  to  see  him.  Sometimes  he  was  obliged  to  complain 
mildly,  as  of  that  indiscreet  stranger  who,  desirous  of  embracing 
him,  awkwardly  overturned  his  ink  on  the  border  of  his  robe. 

Tor  over  a third  of  a century,  the  holy  and  dauntless  Columbkille 
traversed  the  wild  northern  regions  of  Caledonia — regions  hitherto 
inaccessible  even  to  the  Roman  eagle.  At  his  preaching  and  miracles 
the  fierce  and  warlike  Piets  bowed  beneath  the  cross.  This  renowned 
missionary  laid  the  foundation  of  Christianity,  civilization,  and  lit- 
erature in  Scotland.  Out  of  the  many  monasteries  which  he  found- 
ed in  that  land,  the  remains  of  fifty-three  are  to  be  seen  to  this  day. 
The  noble  figure  of  St.  Columbkille,  prince  and  monk,  towers  aloft 
in  that  distant  age.  His  is  by  far  the  grandest  name  that  appears 
in  the  early  annals  of  Great  Britain. 17 

Skimming  Loch  Ness  with  his  little  skifi,  our  Saint  soon  pene- 
trated to  the  principal  fortress  of  the  Pictish  king,  the  site  of 
which  is  still  shown  upon  a rock  north  of  the  town  of  Inverness. 
Brude  was  the  name  of  the  hardy  and  powerful  monarch.18  At  first 
he  would  not  receive  the  Irish  missionary,  but  gave  orders  that  the 
gates  of  the  fortress  should  not  be  opened  to  the  unwelcome  visi- 
tor. But  Columbkille  was  not  alarmed.  “ He  went  up  to  the 
gateway,”  says  his  biographer,  “ made  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon 
the  two  gates,  and  then  knocked  with  his  hand.  Immediately  the 
bars  and  bolts  drew  back,  the  gates  rolled  upon  their  hinges  and 

i«  “The  Monks  of  the  West,”  vol.  ii. 

17  J.  O’Kane  Murray,  41  Lessons  in  English  Literature,”  book  i. 

18  The  Venerable  Bede  styles  him 44  rege  potentissimo.” 


St.  Columbkille , 


21 

were  thrown  wide  open,  and  Columbkille  entered  like  a conqueror. 
The  king,  though  surrounded  by  his  council,  was  struck  with  pan- 
ic ; he  hastened  to  meet  the  missionary,  addressed  to  him  pacific 
and  encouraging  words,  and  from  that  moment  gave  him  every 
honor.”  19  Thus  obstacles  vanished  at  the  very  glance  of  the  great 
Irish  Missionary. 

One  day,  while  laboring  at  his  evangelical  work  in  the  principal 
island  of  the  Hebrides,20  he  cried  out  all  at  once  : “ My  sons,  to-day 
you  will  see  an  ancient  Pictisli  chief,  who  has  kept  faithfully  all 
his  life  the  precepts  of  the  natural  law,  arrive  in  this  island  ; he 
comes  to  be  baptized  and  to  die.”  Immediately  after  a boat  was 
seen  to  approach  the  shore  with  a feeble  old  man  seated  in  the 
prow.  He  was  the  chief  of  one  of  the  neighboring  tribes.  Two 
of  his  companions  took  him  up  in  their  arms,  and  brought  him  be- 
fore the  missionary,  to  whose  words,  as  repeated  by  the  interpre- 
ter, he  listened  attentively.  When  the  discourse  was  ended,  the 
old  man  asked  to  be  baptized,  and  soon  after  breathed  his  last 
breath,  and  was  buried  in  the  very  spot  where  he  had  just  been 
brought  to  shore. 21 

Columbkille  accomplished  the  conversion  of  the  entire  Pictisli 
nation,  and  destroyed  for  ever  the  authority  of  the  Druids  in  that 
last  refuge  of  Celtic  paganism.  Before  he  closed  his  glorious  ca- 
reer he  had  sown  their  forests,  their  defiles,  their  inaccessible 
mountains,  their  savage  moors,-  and  scarcely-inhabited  islands  with 
churches  and  monasteries. 

In  574,  St.  Columbkille  blessed  Aidan,  consecrating  him  king  of 
the  Caledonian  Scots.  Ecclesiastical  writers  say  that  this  is  the 
first  example  in  history  of  the  solemn  consecration  of  a Christian 
king.22 

In  Ireland  the  bards  were  regarded  as  an  honored  class — in  fact, 
as  oracles  of  poetry,  music,  history,  and  all  knowledge.  If  their 
training  was  long  and  rigorous,  their  privileges  were  nearly  un- 
bounded. At  the  royal  table  they  occupied  the  first  place  after 
that  of  the  king  himself.23  At  the  time  of  which  we  speak  they 
were  loudly  accused  of  having  grossly  misused  their  power  and  their 

19  Montalembert,  vol.  ii.  St.  Adamnan,  in  his  Latin  life  of  St.  Columbkille,  gives  a detail- 
ed statement  of  this  miraculous  incident. 

20  The  isle  of  Skye. 

21  Montalembert,  who,  of  course,  follows  Adamnan. 

22  Martene,  “ De  Solemni  Regum  Benedictions, ” quoted  by  Montalembert. 

23  O’Curry,  1 Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Irish  History.” 


22 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


privileges.  Indeed,  the  enmities  raised  against  them  had  come  to 
such  a point  that  the  chief  monarch  of  Ireland  felt  himself  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  propose  to  the  assembly  of  Drumceitt  the  entire 
suppression,  and  even  banishment,  of  the  hards.  St.  Columbkille, 
however,  saved  them  by  his  wonderful  influence.  Their  gratitude 
was  boundless,  and  for  centuries  after  the  bards  of  Erinn  sang  the 
praises  of  the  great  missionary,  who  himself  was  born  a poet,  lived 
a poet,  and  died  a poet. 

The  soul  of  St.  Columbkille,  amid  all  his  labors  in  Scotland,  was 
swayed  by  one  master  sentiment — regret  for  his  long-lost  Erinn.  His 
passionate  love  for  his  country  displayed  itself  to  his  last  breath. 
In  his  songs  he  pours  forth  his  sorrowful  affection.  “ My  sad  heart 
ever  bleeds,”  he  says.  “ There  is  a gray  eye  which  ever  turns  to 
Erinn ; but  never  in  this  life  shall  it  see  Erinn,  nor  her  sons,  nor 
her  daughters.  I look  over  the  sea,  and  great  tears  are  in  my 
eye  ! ” 

The  most  severe  penance  which  he  could  imagine  for  the  most 
guilty  sinners  who  came  to  confess  to  him  was  to  impose  upon  them 
the  same  fate  which  he  had  voluntarily  inflicted  upon  himself — 
never  to  set  foot  again  upon  Irish  soil. 

To  monks  about  returning  to  Ireland  he  would  say:  “You  go 
back  to  the  country  that  you  love.” 

“ This  melancholy  patriotism,”  says  Montalembert,  “ never  faded 
out  of  his  heart.”  His  regret  for  his  lost  Ireland  was  (as  we  have 
said)  life-long.  Once  he  bade  a monk  to  sit  upon  the  shore  of 
Iona,  and  watch  for  a poor,  exhausted,  weather-beaten  stork  from 
the  north  of  Ireland,  which  would  fall  at  his  feet.  “Take  her  up 
with  pity,”  added  the  Saint,  “ feed  her,  and  watch  her  for  three 
days.  When  she  is  refreshed  she  will  no  longer  wish  to  prolong 
her  exile  among  us — she  will  fly  to  sweet  Ireland,  her  dear  country 
where  she  was  born.  I bid  thee  care  for  her  thus,  because  she 
comes  from  the  land  where  I,  too,  was  born.”  Everything  happen- 
ed as  he  said.  In  three  days  the  stork  rose  from  the  ground  in  her 
host’s  presence,  and  directed  her  flight  towards  Ireland. 

To  all  his  relations  he  was  most  tenderly  attached. 

One  day  at  Iona,  he  suddenly  stopped  short  while  reading,  and 
said  with  a smile  to  his  monks  : “I  must  now  go  and  pray  for  a 
poor  little  woman  who  is  in  the  pains  of  child-birth,  and  who 
suffers  like  a true  daughter  of  Eve.  She  is  down  yonder  in 
Ireland,  and  reckons  upon  my  prayers ; for  she  is  my  kinswoman, 


St.  Columbkille. 


23 


and  of  my  mother’s  family.”  ' Upon  this  the  great  priest  hastened 
to  the  church,  and,  when  his  prayer  was  ended,  returned  to  his 
brethren,  saying  : “ She  is  delivered.  The  Lord  Jesus,  who  deigned 
to  be  born  of  a woman,  has  come  to  her  aid ; this  time  she  will  not 
die.”  24 

Towards  his  last  days  a celestial  light  was  occasionally  seen  to 
surround  him  as  a garment.  And,  once  as  he  prayed,  his  face 
was  first  lit  up  with  beatific  joy,  which  finally  gave  expression  to 
a profound  sadness.  Two  of  his  monks  saw  this  singular  change 
of  countenance.  Throwing  themselves  at  the  aged  Abbot’s  feet, 
they  implored  him,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  to  tell  them  what  he 
had  learned  in  his  prayer. 

“ Dear  children,”  said  he,  “ I do  not  wish  to  afflict  you.  . . . 
But  it  is  thirty  years  to-day  since  I began  my  pilgrimage  in 
Caledonia.  I have  long  prayed  to  God  to  let  my  exile  end  with 
this  thirtieth  year,  and  to  call  me  to  the  heavenly  country.  When 
you  saw  me  so  joyous,  it  was  because  I could  already  see  the  angels 
who  came  to  seek  my  soul.  But  all  at  once  they  stopped  short 
down  there  upon  that  rock  at  the  farthest  limits  of  the  sea  which 
surrounds  our  island,  as  if  they  would  approach  to  take  me  and 
could  not.  And,  in  truth,  they  could  not,  because  the  Lord  had 
paid  less  regard  to  my  ardent  prayer  than  to  that  of  the  many 
churches  which  have  prayed  for  me,  and  which  have  obtained, 
against  my  will,  that  I should  still  dwell  in  this  body  for  four  years. 
This  is  the  reason  of  my  sadness.  But  in  four  years  I shall  die 
without  being  sick.  In  four  years,  I know  it  and  see  it,  they  will 
come  back,  these  holy  angels,  and  I shall  take  my  flight  with  them 
towards  the  Lord.” 25 

Wonderful  man  ! His  last  day  on  earth  came.  It  was  on  a 
Saturday  in  sunny  June.  Drawn  in  a car  by  oxen,  the  aged 
patriarch  passed  through  the  fields  near  the  monastery,  and  blessed 
his  monks  at  their  labor.  Arising  in  his  rustic  chariot,  he  then 
gave  his  solemn  benediction  to  the  whole  island — a benediction 
which,  according  to  local  tradition,  was  like  that  of  St.  Patrick  iii 
Ireland,  and  drove  from  that  day  all  vipers  and  venomous  creatures 
out  of  Iona. 26  He  then  went  to  the  granary  of  the  monastery,  and 
gave  it  his  blessing,  remarking  to  his  faithful  attendant,  Diarmid  : 

24Montalembert,who  here  literally  follows  St.  Adamnan. 

26  Montalembert,  vol.  ii.  ; Adamnan,  iii  23. 

26  Ibid. 


24 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


“ This  very  night  I shall  enter  into  the  path  of  my  fathers.  Thou 
weepest,  dear  Diarmid,  but  console  thyself.  It  is  my  Lord  Jesus 
who  deigns  to  invite  me  to  rejoin  him.  It  is  he  who  has  revealed 
to  me  that  my  summons  will  come  to-night.”  He  then  left  the 
store-house,  and  on  the  way  to  the  monastery  was  met  by  a good  and 
ancient  servant,  the  old  white  horse,  which  came  and  put  his  head 
upon  his  master’s  shoulder,  as  if  to  take  leave  of  him.  “ The  eyes 
of  the  old  horse,”  remarks  the  biographer  of  our  Saint,  “had  an 
expression  so  pathetic  that  they  seemed  to  be  bathed  in  tears.” 
Caressing  the  faithful  brute,  he  gave  him  a last  blessing.27  He  now 
entered  his  cell  and  began  to  work  for  the  last  time.  It  was  at 
his  dearly-loved  employment — transcribing  the  Psalter.  When  the 
sublime  old  man  came  to  a certain  verse  in  the  thirty-third  Psalm, 
he  said : “ I must  stop  here.  Baithen  will  write  the  rest.” 28 
After  a time  spent  in  prayer  he  entrusted  his  only  companion  with 
a last  message  for  the  community,  advising  them,  like  the  apostle 
of  old,  “to  love  one  another.” 

As  soon  as  the  midnight  bell  had  rung  for  the  matins  of  the 
Sunday  festival,  the  noble  old  saint  and  poet  rose  and  knelt  down 
before  the  altar.  Diarmid  followed  him,  but,  as  the  church  was 
not  yet  lighted,  he  could  only  find  him  by  groping  and  crying  in  a 
plaintive  voice:  “Where  art  thou,  my  father?”  He  found  Co- 
lumbkille  lying  before  the  altar,  and,  placing  himself  at  his  side, 
raised  the  aged  Abbot’s  venerable  head  upon  his  knees.  The 
whole  community  soon  arrived  with  lights,  and  wept  as  one  man  at 
the  sight  of  their  dying  chief  and  father.  Once  more  Columbkille 
opened  his  eyes,  and  turned  them  to  his  children  on  each  side  with 
a look  full  of  serene  and  radiant  joy.  Then  with  the  aid  of  Diar- 
mid he  raised,  as  best  he  could,  his  right  hand  to  bless  them  all. 
His  hand  dropped,  the  last  sigh  came  from  his  lips,  and  his  face 
remained  calm  and  sweet  like  that  of  a man  who  in  his  sleep  had 
seen  a vision  of  heaven.29  And  thus  died,  or  rather  passed  away,  on 
the  9th  of  June,  in  the  year  597,  in  his  seventy-sixth  year,  the 
glorious  St.  Columbkille,  apostle  of  Caledonia,  Irish  prince,  poet, 

27  Adamnan,  iii.  23. 

28  Baithen  became  his  successor. 

29  Montalembert,  vol.  ii.  p.  106,  Am.  ed.  ; Adamnan,  iii.  23.  The  long  chapter  of  Adam, 
nan  which  describes  the  last  scenes  of  the  great  Abbot’s  life  “ is,”  writes  Rev.  Dr. 
Reeves,  “ as  touchingly  beautiful  a narrative  as  is  to  be  met  with  in  the  whole  range  of 
ancient  biography  ” (Adamnan's  “ Life  of  St.  Columbkille,”  p.  78,  note).  It  is  worthy  of 
remark  that  St.  Augustine  landed  at  Kent,  England,  the  very  year  that  St.  Columbkille 
died. 


S/.  Columbkille. 


25 


monk,  and  missionary — a man  whose  beautiful  name  and  shining 
deeds  will  live  for  ever  and  for  ever  ! 

After  Oisin,80  says  Montalembert,  Columbkille  opens  the  series  of 
two  hundred  Irish  poets  whose  memories  and  names,  in  default  of 
their  works,  have  remained  dear  to  Ireland.  He  wrote  verses  not 
only  in  Latin,  but  also,  and  more  frequently,  in  Irish.  But  three, 
however,  of  his  Latin  poems  survive  ; and  only  two  centuries  ago 
eleven  of  his  Irish  poems  were  still  in  existence.31  Colgan  gives 
the  title  and  quotes  the  first  verse  of  each  of  those  Irish  poems, 
the  most  authentic  of  which  is  the  one  dedicated  to  the  glory  of  St. 
Bridget. 32  The  six  poetical  pieces  which  we  reproduce  in  this  vol- 
ume are  all  attributed  to  the  pen  of  the  Saint,  and  the  most  rigid 
criticism  is  forced  to  accept  them  as  the  genuine  literary  remains  of 
a venerable  past.33 

As  to  the  so-called  “ prophecies”  of  St.  Columbkille,  it  may  be 
well  to  remark  that  the  best  Catholic  critics  and  the  most  profound 
Irish  scholars  regard  them  as  impositions  and  silly  fictions.  The 
learned  and  pious  O’ Curry,  in  one  of  his  matchless  lectures,  fully 
discusses  this  matter.94  In  concluding  he  says  : “ It  is  remarkable 
that  no  reference  to  any  of  these  long,  circumstantially-defined 
prophecies  can  be  found  in  any  of  the  many  ancient  copies  of  the 
Saint’s  life  which  have  come  down  to  us.  ...  I feel  it  to  be  a 
duty  I owe  to  my  country,  as  well  as  to  my  creed  as  a Catholic,  to 
express  thus  in  public  the  disgust  which  I feel  with  every  right- 


30  Oisin  (and  not  Ossian)  is  the  true  form  of  the  word.  It  is  singular  that  so  many 
writers  on  English  literature  copy  each  other’s  blunders  in  spelling  the  name  of  this 
ancient  Irish  poet.  See  Prof.  O’Curry’s  Lectures. 

31  “ The  Monks  of  the  West,”  vol.  ii. 

32  “ Trias  Thaumaturgas,”  p.  472. 

33  Speaking  of  the  writings  of  St.  Columbkille  that  yet  exist,  Rev.  Dr.  Reeves  says: 
“ Three  Latin  hymns  of  considerable  beauty  are  attributed  to  him,  and  in  the  ancient 
Liber  Hymnorum,  where  they  are  preserved,  each  is  accompanied  by  a preface  describing 
the  occasion  on  which  it  was  written.  His  alleged  Irish  compositions  are  also  poems. 
There  are  in  print  his  ‘ Farewell  to  Aran,’  a poem  of  twenty-two  stanzas  ; another 
poem  of  seventeen  stanzas  which  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  on  the  occasion  of 
his  flight  from  King  Diarmid.  Besides  these,  there  is  a collection  of  some  fifteen  poems 
bearing  his  name  in  one  of  the  O’Clery  MSS.,  preserved  in  the  Burgundian  library  at 
Brussels.  But  much  the  largest  collection  is  contained  in  an  oblong  MS.  of  the  Bod- 
leian Library  at  Oxford,  Laud  G16,  which  embraces  everything  in  the  shape  of  poem  or 
fragment  that  could  be  called  Columbkille's,  which  industry  was  able  to  scrape  together 
at  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.”— “ Life  of  St.  Columbkille  ” by  St.  Adamnan, 
appendix  to  the  preface,  pp.  78-9. 

The  learned  Count  de  Montalembert,  who  doubtless  examined  the  Bodleian  collection 
of  St.  Columbkille’s  poems,  says  it contains  thirty-six  Irish  poems.” 

34 See  “ Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Ancient  Irish  History,”  lecture  xix. 


26 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


minded  Irishman  in  witnessing  the  dishonest  exertions  of  certain 
parties  of  late  years35  in  attempting,  by  various  publications,  to 
fasten  these  disgraceful  forgeries  on  the  credulity  of  honest  and 
sincere  Catholics  as  the  undoubtedly  inspired  revelations  of  the 
ancient  saints  of  Erinn.  . . . Our  primitive  saints  never  did , 
according  to  any  reliable  authority , pretend  to  foretell  political 
events  of  remote  occurrence ” 

In  personal  appearance  St.  Columbkille  was  most  attractive  and 
dignified.  His  lofty  figure  and  pure,  manly,  beautiful  counte- 
nance impressed  every  beholder.  We  have  endeavored  to  give  a 
few  feeble  glimpses  at  his  grandly  holy  and  heroic  career.  He  was, 
above  all  others,  the  dear  Irish  saint,  ardent,  eloquent,  impulsive, 
noble,  and  generous  to  a fault.  Next  to  God,  he  loved  his  friends 
and  his  country  with  a love  passionate  and  deathless.  In  a confus- 
ed age  and  unknown  region  he  displayed  all  that  is  greatest  and 
purest,  and,  it  must  be  added,  most  easily  forgotten  in  human 
genius — the  gift  of  ruling  souls  by  ruling  himself. 

The  influence  of  St.  Columbkille,  as  of  all  men  really  superior  to 
their  fellows,  and  especially  of  the  saints,  far  from  ceasing  with  his 
life,  grew  greater  and  greater  after  his  death.  The  visions  and 
miracles  which  went  to  prove  his  sanctity  would  fill  a volume.  As 
long  as  his  body  remained  in  his  island  grave,  Iona  continued  to  be 
the  most  venerated  sanctuary  of  the  Celts.  Seventy  kings  were 
buried  at  his  feet,36  and  from  his  great  monastery,  on  that  blessed 
spot,  religion,  learning,  and  civilization  flashed  their  genial  rays 
over  the  neighboring  kingdoms. 

In  the  eighteenth  century  the  celebrated  Dr.  Johnson  visited  the 
sad  and  sombre  ruins  of  historic  Iona — that  grand  Iona  whose 
famous  sanctuary  had  been  plundered  by  pagan  Danes,37  and  fin- 

35  We  have  before  us  a pretentious  version  of  these  so-called  “ Prophecies,”  edited  by 
one  Nicholas  O’Kearnt  y,  and  issued  at  Dublin  in  1855.  Yet,  accordingto  Rev.  Dr.  Reeves, 
“Eire  this  night,”  the  sixth  and  last  of  St.  Columbkille’s  “prophecies  ” given  in  that 
singular  volume,  “ is  not  as  old  cs  the  Ecclesiastical  Titles  Bill  ” ! 

38  Montalembert.— The  recollection  of  this  royal  cemetery  has  been  consecrated  by 
Shakspere  in  his  great  tragedy  of  “ Macbeth”: 

“ Rosse.  Where  is  Duncan  buried  ? 

Macduff.  Carried  to  Colmes-kill, 

The  sacred  store-house  of  his  predecessors, 

And  guardian  of  their  bones.” 

37  The  Danes  first  sacked  this  monastery  in  801.  This  sad  event  is  thus  recorded  in  the 
“Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  ” (vol.  i.  p.  411)  : “The  age  of  Christ  801.  Hi-Coluim-  file 
[Iona]  was  plundered  by  foreigners,  and  great  numbers  of  the  laity  and  clergy  were  killed 
by  them — namely,  sixty-eight.”  For  safety,  toward  the  close  of  the  same  century,  the 
sacred  remains  of  bt.  Columbkille  were  transferred  to  Ireland. 


Sb  Columbkille. 


27 


ally  profaned  and  destroyed  by  the  brutal  and  more  than  pagan 
hands  of  Scotch  fanatics  and  English  ruffians. 

“ We  are  now  treading,”  wrote  the  enthusiastic  Johnson,  “ that 
illustrious  island  which  was  once  the  luminary  of  the  Caledonian 
regions,  whence  savage  clans  and  roving  barbarians  derived  the 
benefits  of  knowledge  and  the  blessings  of  religion.  To  abstract 
the  mind  from  all  local  emotion  would  be  impossible  if  it  were 
endeavored,  and  would  be  foolish  if  it  were  possible.  Whatever 
withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses,  whatever  makes  the 
past,  the  distant,  or  the  future  predominate  over  the  present,  advan- 
ces us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me  and  from 
my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us  indiffer- 
ent and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by  wis- 
dom, bravery,  or  virtue.  That  man  is  little  to  be  envied  whose 
patriotism  would  not  gain  force  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon,  or 
whose  piety  would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  Iona.”  38 


THE  RECORD  OF  COLUMBKILLE’S  PRINCIPAL  CHURCHES.39 

Delightful  to  be  on  Benn-Edar  40 
Before  going  o’er  the  white  sea  ; 

The  dashing  of  the  waves  against  its  face. 

The  bareness  of  its  shores  and  its  border. 

Delightful  to  be  on  Benn-Edar, 

After  coming  o’er  the  white-bosomed  sea. 

To  row  one’s  little  coracle, 

Ohone  ! on  the  swift-waved  shore. 

How  rapid  the  speed  of  my  coracle  ; 

And  its  stern  turned  upon  Derry  ; 

I grieved  at  my  errand  o’er  the  noble  sea, 

Travelling  to  Alba  of  the  ravens. 

My  foot  in  my  sweet  little  coracle. 

My  sad  heart  still  bleeding; 

38  “7?our  to  the  Hebrides.” 

39  Dr.  Reeves  is  of  opinion  that  this  poem  belongs  to  a later  period  than  St.  Columb 
kille’s  day,  but  we  do  not  see  any  good  reason  to  think  that  it  is. 

46  The  highest  elevation  of  the  peninsula  of  Howth. 


28 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  0/  Ireland, 


Weak  is  the  man  that  cannot  lead ; 

Totally  blind  are  all  the  ignorant. 

There  is  a gray  eye 

That  looks  back  upon  Erinn  ; 

It  shall  not  see  during  life 

The  men  of  Erinn  nor  their  wives. 

My  vision  o’er  the  brine  I stretch 
From  the  ample  oaken  planks  ; 

Sage  is  the  tear  of  my  soft  gray  eye 
When  I look  back  upon  Erinn. 

Upon  Erinn  my  attention  is  fixed  ; 

Upon  Loch  Levin,41  upon  Line  42 ; 

Upon  the  lands  the  Ultonians  own; 

Upon  smooth  Munster — upon  Meath. 

Numerous  in  the  East 43  are  tall  champions, 
Many  the  diseases  and  distempers  there. 
Many  they  with  scanty  clothes. 

Many  the  hard  and  jealous  hearts. 

Plentiful  in  the  West  44  the  apple  fruit ; 
Many  the  kings  and  princes  ; 

Plentiful  its  luxuriant  sloes. 

Plentiful  its  noble  acorn-bearing  oaks. 

Melodious  her  clerics,  melodious  her  birds, 
Gentle  her  youths,  wise  her  seniors. 
Illustrious  her  men,  noble  to  behold, 
Illustrious  her  women  for  fond  espousal. 

It  is  in  the  West  sweet  Brendan  is, 

And  Colum,  son  of  Crimtliann, 

And  in  the  West  fair  Baithin  shall  be, 

And  in  the  West  shall  Adamnan  be. 

Carry  my  enquiries  after  that 
Unto  Comgall  of  eternal  life  ; 


« Now  Lough  Lene,  Westmeath. 

45  Now  known  as  Moylinny,  near  the  town  of  Antrim. 
43  East— that  is,  Scotland. 


44  West— that  is,  Ireland- 


St.  Columbkille. 


29 


Carry  my  enquiries  after  that 
To  the  bold  king  of  fair  Emania.4” 

Carry  with  thee,  thou  noble  youth, 

My  blessing  and  my  benediction  ; 
One-half  upon  Erinn  seven-fold. 

And  half  on  Alba  at  the  same  time. 

Carry  my  benediction  over  the  sea 
To  the  nobles  of  Island  of  the  Gaedhil ; 
Let  them  not  credit  Molaisi’s  words, 

Nor  his  threatened  persecution. 

Were  it  not  for  Molaisi’s  words 
At  the  cross  of  Ath-Imlaisi, 

I should  not  now  permit 
Disease  or  distemper  in  Ireland. 

Take  my  blessing  with  thee  to  the  West ; 
Broken  is  my  heart  in  my  breast : 

Should  sudden  death  overtake  me, 

It  is  for  my  great  love  of  the  Gaedhil. 

Gaedhil  ! Gaedhil,  beloved  name  ! 

My  only  desire  i«  to  invoke  it ; 

Beloved  is  Cuimin  of  fair  hair  ; 

Beloved  are  Cainnech  and  Comgall. 

Were  the  tribute  of  Alba  mine, 

From  its  centre  to  its  border, 

I would  prefer  the  sight  of  one  house 
In  the  middle  of  fair  Derry.46 

The  reason  I love  Derry  is 
For  its  quietness,  for  its  purity  ; 

And  for  its  crowds  of  white  angels 
From  the  one  end  to  the  other. 

The  reason  why  I love  Derry  is 
For  its  quietness,  for  its  purity  ; 

Crowded  full  of  heaven’s  angels, 

Is  every  leaf  of  the  oaks  of  Derry. 


45  Emania,  the  ancient  seat  of  royalty  in  Ulster. 


46  Derry,  now  Londonderry. 


3° 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


My  Derry,  my  little  oak-grove. 

My  dwelling  and  my  little  cell ; 

O eternal  God  in  heaven  above. 

Woe  be  to  him  who  violates  it ! 

Beloved  are  Durrow47  and  Derry  ; 
Beloved  is  Baphoe  in  purity  ; 

Beloved  Drumhome  of  rich  fruits  ; 
Beloved  are  Swords  and  Kells. 

Beloved  is  my  heart  also  in  the  West, 
Drumcliff,  at  Culcinne’s  strand  : 

To  behold  the  fair  Loch  Feval,48 
The  form  of  its  shores  is  delightful. 

Delightful  is  that,  and  delightful 
The  salt  main  in  which  the  sea-gulls  cry 
On  my  coming  from  Derry  afar ; 

It  is  quiet  and  it  is  delightful. 

Delightful. 


THE  DIALOGUE  OF  ST.  COLUMBKILLE  AND  CORMAC.49 

[ This  dialogue  took  place,  it  is  said,  in  Iona,  after  Cormac’s  escape  from  the 
Coire  Brecain,  and  after  searching  the  boundless  ocean,  until  he  reached  the  cold 
regions  of  the  North  ] 

COLUMBKILLE  FIRST  SPOKE. 

Thou  art  welcome,  0 comely  Cormac, 

From  over  the  all-teeming  sea. 

What  sent  thee  forth  ? Where  hast  thou  been, 

Since  the  time  we  were  on  the  same  path  ? 

Two  years  and  a month  to  this  night 
Is  the  time  thou  hast  been  wandering  from  port  to  port, 
From  wave  to  wave  ; resolute  the  energy 
To  traverse  the  wide  ocean  ! 

47  Durrow  was  in  King’s  County.  48  Now  Lough  Foyle. 

49  The  titles  of  this  and  the  following  poem  are  given  in  Colgan's  list  of  St.  Columb- 
kille’s  reputed  writings.  The  beautiful  English  rendering  of  both  is  from  the  gifted 
pen  of  the  late  lamented  Professor  Eugene  O’Curry.  The  original  Irish  with  the  Eng- 
lish translation  can  be  found  in  St.  Adamnan’s  “Life  of  St  Columbkille,’1  Appendix, 
pp.  264,  etc.,  ed.  by  Rev.  Dr.  Reeves.  Cormac  was  a monk,  and  one  of  the  dear  compa- 
nions of  St.  Columbkille’s  early  years. 


St.  Columbkille . 


3i 


Since  the  sea  hath  sent  thee  hither, 

Thou  sliait  have  friendship  and  counsel : 

Were  it  not  for  Christ’s  sake,  Lord  of  the  fair  world. 
Thou  hast  merited,  satire  and  reproach. 

Cormac.  Let  there  be  no  reproach  now, 

0 descendant  of  Niall,50  for  we  are  a noble  race  : 

The  sun  shines  in  the  west  as  in  the  east : 

A righteous  guest  is  entitled  to  reception. 

Columbkille.  Thou  art  welcome,  since  thou  hast  come 
From  the  waves  of  the  mighty  sea  : 

Thou  hast  for  ever  abandoned  thy  home, 

Thou  descendant  of  the  illustrious  Liathan  ? 

Cormac.  0 Columbkille,  descendant  of  Conn,51 
Erinn,  on  which  I have  turned  my  back, 

1 shall  not  touch  in  the  west  or  east 

Any  more  than  the  monster-full  pit  of  hell. 

Columkille.  Though  thou  travel  the  world  over, 

East,  west,  south,  ebb,  flood, 

Though  noble  son  of  high-born  Dima, 

It  is  in  Durrow  thy  resurrection  shall  be. 

Cormac.  Alas  ! for  my  labor,  0 Son  of  God, 

Thou  Father  of  all  mercies, 

And  all  my  work  beyond  the  full  brine. 

If  my  last  end  shall  be  in  Erinn  ! 

Columbkille.  I pledge  thee  my  unerring  word, 

Which  it  is  not  possible  to  impugn  : 

Death  is  better  in  reproachless  Erinn 
Than  perpetual  life  in  Alba. 

Cormac.  If  it  is  better  to  be  in  noble  Erinn 
Than  in  inviolate  Alba, 

I shall  be  in  Alba  by  turns, 

And  go  thou  into  Erinn. 


60  Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages. 


51  Conn  of  the  Hundred  Battles. 


32 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Columbkille.  That  which  thou  sayest  is  not  meet, 

0 Cormac  of  spotless  purity  ; 

Turn  on  thy  right,  go  to  thy  home, 

Unto  Laisren,  son  of  Feradhach. 

Cormac.  I and  Laisren  of  untarnished  lustre, 

Bad  are  our  joined  neighbors  ; 

Eile  and  Delbhna  will  yield  us  gifts, 

Ui  Failghe,  and  Cenel  Fiachach. 

Columbkille.  My  cousins  are  by  thee  on  the  north, 
The  Claim  Column  of  reddened  swords  ; 

They  will  not  abandon  me  on  any  account, 

Nor  will  they  permit  outrage  on  me. 

Cormac.  Wert  thou  there  thyself, 

No  stranger  should  insult  thee  ; 

No  king,  nor  apparent  king-making, 

Nor  bond,  nor  free,  nor  secret. 

Columbkille.  0 Cormac  of  powerful  strength, 

Woe  to  him  who  shall  do  violence  to  thee  ; 

Evil  shall  be  the  reward  he  shall  receive, 
Shortness  of  life,  and  hell ; 

From  high  exalted  Erinn  shall  he  be  cut  off ; 

Nor  shall  he  be  left  roof  or  habitation. 

Cormac.  0 Columbkille  of  a hundred  graces, 

For  thou  art  a true  prophet,  thou  art  a true  poet. 
Thou  art  a learned  scribe,  happy,  perfect, 

And  a devout,  accomplished  priest; 

Thou  art  a king’s  son  of  reddened  valor. 

Thou  art  a virgin,  thou  art  a pilgrim  ; 

We  shall  abide  in  the  west,  if  thou  desire  it : 
Christ  will  unfold  His  mysterious  intentions. 

Columbkille.  0 Cormac,  beautiful  is  thy  church, 
With  its  books  and  learning  ; 

A devout  city  with  a hundred  crosses, 

Without  blemish,  without  transgression  ; 


St.  Columbkille , 


33 


A holy  dwelling  confirmed  by  my  verse, 

The  green  of  Aedh,  son  of  Brennan, 

The  Oak-plain  of  far-famed  Ros-  Grenaha  : 62 
The  night  upon  which  her  pilgrims  collect, 
The  number  of  her  wise — a fact  wide  spread — ■ 
Is  unknown  to  any  but  the  only  God. 


WHEN  CORMAC  CAME  TO  ST.  COLUMBKILLE  FROM  HIS  OWN 

COUNTRY.53 

Cormac,  offspring  of  Liathan,  of  aspect  bright, 

The  champion  of  Heaven  and  of  earth. 

Came  out  of  his  Southern,  warm  country 
Upon  a visit,  upon  a pilgrimage. 

Two  oxen  of  noble  appearance 

Conveyed  the  devout  cleric 

From  the  South,  from  the  broad,  rapid  Lee, 

To  Cormac’s  cross  at  Caindruim. 

Druim-Cain54  was  the  first  name  of  the  height 
Where  Dairmagh55  stands,  according  to  history  ) 

Dermagh  is  its  name  now  ; 

The  country  of  Covell,  offspring  of  Fergus. 

When  the  blooming  sweet  man  had  arrived 
At  Cormac’s  cross  at  the  church, 

Then  rang  the  soft-toned  bell 
Here  at  Catamael’s  city. 

That  pleasant  divine  then  celebrated  service, 

Cormac,  son  of  the  noble-faced  Dima ; 

And  to  meet  him  came  together 
Our  devout,  steadfast  congregation. 

Thou  art  welcome  here,  thy  face  is  pleasant, 

0 Cormac,  since  thou  art  devout: 

62  An  ancient  name  of  Durrow. 

63  It  is  supposed  the  scene  of  the  dialogue  was  at  Durrow. 

64  The  old  name  of  Ushnagh  Hill,  Westmeath. 

66  Dairmagh  was  the  ancient  name  of  Durrow. 


34  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

Thy  coming  hither  with  speed 
Was  a long  time  since  foretold. 

Abide  here,  for  thou  art  a perfect  divine, 

0 Cormac,  of  character  unbroken, 

That  thou  mayest  be  the  proper  guardian. 

That  shall  be  in  my  devout  city. 

Cormac.  How  can  I be  here,  said  he, 

Thou  noble  son  of  Fedhlim, 

Among  the  powerful  northern  tribes, 

In  this  border  territory,  0 Colum  ? 

Columbkille.  Restrain  all  subordinates,  all  rash  ones. 
All  chieftains  who  require  it; 

And  I will  restrain  all  actual  kings. 

All  those  present  and  at  a distance. 

Let  us  therefore  form  our  union, 

As  Christ  has  ordained  in  the  flesh  ; 

Not  to  be  dissolved  till  the  judgment  day. 

By  us,  0 Cormac,  offspring  of  Liathan. 

Bind  upon  the  thumbs  of  my  hands, 

0 Cormac  of  many  dignities. 

The  coils  of  our  noble  union, 

As  long  as  beautiful  Dairmagh  shall  last. 

Perversely  hast  thou  attacked  me,  0 MomonianJ* 

0 Cormac  of  memorable  sense 
Wolves  shall  eat  thy  body. 

For  this  deed,  without  any  mercy. 

Cormac.  Though  many  be  the  joints  of  my  body. 

Said  Cormac  the  Just,  from  Core’s  Cashel, 

There  shall  be  a church  for  every  one  of  them, 

And  they  shall  all  be  yours, 

0 fair-famed  Colum. 

Columbkille.  I well  know  what  will  be  the  result 
Of  cutting  me,  of  mutilating  me : 

Mine  honor  shall  rest  with  my  thumb  in  my  church. 


66  On  account  of  his  belonging  to  a Munster  clan. 


St.  Columbkille. 


35 


As  long  as  pointed  Erinn  shall  exist. 

Procure  for  me  tribute  from  thy  race, 

0 thou  descendant  of  Oilill  Olum, 

That  I may  not  visit  vengeance 
On  the  virtuous  posterity  of  Liathan. 

Cormac.  Thou  shalt  receive  a screball  from  every  city/7 


REMAINS  OF  AN  ANCIENT  IRISH  POEM  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  COM- 
POSED BY  THE  SAINT  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  HIS  DEPARTURE 
TO  DURROW. 

[The  following  verses  refer  to  the  early  administration  of  that  monastery.] 

Beloved 58  the  excellent  seven, 

Whom  Christ  has  chosen  to  his  kingdom ; 

To  whom  I leave  for  their  purity 
The  constant  care  of  this  my  church. 

Three  of  whom  are  here  at  this  side, 

Cormac,  son  of  Dima,  and  iEngus, 

And  Collan  of  pure  heart, 

Who  has  joined  himself  to  them. 

Libren,  Senan,  comely  Conrache, 

The  son  of  Ua  Chien,  and  his  brother. 

Are  the  four  besides  the  others 
Who  shall  arrive  at  this  place. 

They  are  the  seven  pillars, 

And  they  are  the  seven,  chiefs, 

Whom  God  has  surely  commanded 
To  dwell  in  the  same  abode. 


57  Here  the  original  MS.  seems  defective. 

58  The  original  containing  these  stanzas  can  be  found  in  the  Brussels  MS.  ; also  in  the 
Bodleian  Library,  Oxford. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland* 


*6 


THE  SONG  OF  TRUST. 

Alone  am  I on  the  mountain  ; 

0 royal  Sun,  prosper  my  path. 

And  then  I shall  have  nothing  to  fear. 

Were  I guarded  by  six  thousand, 

Though  they  might  defend  my  skin, 

When  the  hour  of  death  is  fixed, 

Were  I guarded  by  six  thousand, 

In  no  fortress  could  I be  safe. 

Even  in  a church  the  wicked  are  slain, 

Even  in  an  isle  amidst  a lake  ; 

But  God’s  elect  are  safe 
Even  in  the  front  of  battle. 

No  man  can  kill  me  before  my  day, 

Even  had  we  closed  in  combat ; 

And  no  man  can  save  my  life 
When  the  hour  of  death  has  come. 

My  life  ! 

As  God  pleases  let  it  be  ; 

Naught  can  be  taken  from  it, 

Naught  can  be  added  to  it : 

The  lot  which  God  has  given 
Ere  a man  dies  must  be  lived  out. 

He  who  seeks  more,  were  he  a prince, 

Shall  not  a mite  obtain. 

A guard  ! 

A guard  may  guide  him  on  his  way, 

But  can  they,  can  they  guard 
Against  the  touch  of  death  ? 

Forget  thy  poverty  awhile ; 

Let  us  think  of  the  world’s  hospitality 
The  Son  of  Mary  will  prosper  thee, 

And  every  guest  shall  have  his  share. 

Many  a time 

What  is  spent  returns  to  the  bounteous  hand, 
And  that  which  is  kept  back 
Not  the  less  has  passed  away. 


St.  Columbkille. 


37 


0 living  God  ! 

Alas  for  him  who  evil  works  ! 

That  which  he  thinks  not  of  comes  to  him, 
That  which  he  hopes  vanishes  out  of  his  hand. 

There  is  no  Sreod 69  that  can  tell  our  fate, 

Nor  bird  upon  the  branch, 

Nor  trunk  of  gnarled  oak. 

Better  is  He  in  whom  we  trust. 

The  King  who  has  made  us  all. 

Who  will  not  leave  me  to-night  without  refuge. 

1 adore  not  the  voice  of  birds. 

Nor  chance,  nor  the  love  of  a son  or  a wife. 

My  Druid  is  Christ,  the  Son  of  God, 

The  Son  of  Mary,  the  Great  Abbot, 

The  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Spirit. 

My  lands  are  with  the  King  of  Kings, 

My  Order  at  Kells  and  at  Moone.60 


THE  PRAISE  OF  ST.  BRIDGET.61 

Bridget,  the  good  and  the  virgin, 
Bridget,  our  torch  and  our  sun, 

Bridget,  radiant  and  unseen, 

May  she  lead  us  to  the  eternal  kingdom  ! 

May  Bridget  defend  us 
Against  all  the  troops  of  hell 
And  all  the  adversities  of  life ; 

May  she  beat  them  down  before  us. 

All  the  ill  movements  of  the  flesh. 

This  pure  virgin  whom  we  love, 


99  An  unknown  Druidical  term. 

so  “•  Thus  sang  Columbkille  on  his  lonely  journey  ; and  this  song  will  protect  him  who 
repeats  it  while  he  travels  ” (Preface  to  the  Song  of  Trtist). 

61  According  to  Colgan,  St.  Bridget  died  four  years  after  the  birth  of  St.  Columbkille. 
“ The  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters”  give  a.d.  525  as  the  date  of  this  holy  virgin’s  death. 
See  vol.  i.,  p.  171.  This,  as  the  reader  will  perceive,  is  the  date  also  given  by  Colgan,  who, 
most  likely,  took  the  “Annals”  as  his  authority.  St.  Bridget  was  the  Mary  of  Erinn— 
the  renowned  foundress  of  female  religious  life  in  the  Isle  of  Saints. 


38  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Worthy  of  honor  without  end, 

May  she  extinguish  in  us. 

Yes,  she  shall  always  be  our  safeguard, 
Dear  saint  of  Lagenia ; 62 
After  Patrick  she  pomes  first. 

The  pillar  of  the  land. 

Glorious  among  all  glories, 

Queen  among  all  queens. 

When  old  age  comes  upon  us. 

May  she  be  to  us  as  the  shirt  of  hair  ; 
May  she  fill  us  with  her  grace. 

May  Bridget  protect  us. 83 


•’  The  Latin  name  of  Leinster. 


63  Colgan.  “ Trias  Thaumaturgus,”  p.  606. 


MICHAEL  O'CLERY,  O.S.F., 


CHIEF  OF  THE  FOUR  MASTERS. 


“ We  regard  the  ‘Annals  of  the  Four  Masters’  as  the  largest  collection  of  na- 
tional, civil,  military,  and  family  history  ever  brought  together  in  this,  or 
perhaps  any  other,  country.” — Professor  Eugene  O’Curry. 


ICHAEL  O’CLERY,  the  greatest  of  Irish  annalists,  was  born 


at  Kilbarron,  near  Ballyshannon,  county  of  Donegal,  about 
the  year  1575.1  He  was  descended — as  were  also  the  other  two  annal- 
ists of  the  same  name — from  Guaire  Aidhne,  surnamed  the  Hospita- 
ble, a king  of  Connaught  who  reigned  in  the  seventh  century.  The 
ancient  family  seat  was  in  the  county  of  Galway;  but  the  O’Clerys 
were  driven  thence  by  the  De  Burgos,  shortly  after  the  English 
invasion. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century,  Cormac  MacDermot 
O’Clery,  a man  profoundly  read  in  canon  and  civil  law,  went  to  live 
in  Tirconnell,  in  the  North  of  Ireland.  As  professor  of  both  laws, 
he  was  employed  in  the  monastery  of  Assaroe,  near  Ballyshannon, 
county  of  Donegal.  Cormac  married  the  daughter  of  the  ollav,  or 
chief  professor  of  history,  in  Tirconnell,  and  was  the  father  of  a race 
of  eminent  writers  and  historians.  Three  of  the  Four  Masters  were 
his  lineal  descendants.2 

Michael,  the  subject  of  our  sketch,  was  the  fourth  son  of  Donough 
O’Clery,  and  at  his  baptism  was  named  Teige ; but  afterwards,  on 
entering  religion,  according  to  the  usual  custom  in  such  cases,  he 
changed  his  name,  taking  that  of  Michael.  Unhappily,  we  know 
little  of  O’Clery’s  early  life.  It  appears  that  he  received  the  rudi- 
ments of  his  education  at  his  birthplace,  while  his  classical  and 
Irish  studies  were  finished  in  the  South  of  Ireland  under  a distin- 

1 This  is  the  date  given  by  Dr.  O’Donovan  in  his  Introductory  Remarks  to  the  “An- 
nals of  the  Four  Masters.”  Prof.  O’Curry  says  “about  the  year  1580,”  and  the  Nun 
of  Kenmare  follows  him. 

2 Introductory  Remarks  to  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 


39 


40 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


guished  Irish  scholar  named  MacEgan.  As  he  remarks  himself,  he 
was  “ a chronicler  by  descent  and  education.”  3 

We  cannot  fix  the  date  of  O’Clery’s  entrance  into  the  Order  of  St. 
Francis.4  He  did  not  aspire  to  the  dignity  of  the  priesthood,  but 
preferred  to  remain  a simple  lay  brother,  continuing  to  pursue  the 
hereditary  profession  of  antiquarian,  which  he  had  followed  in  secu- 
lar life. 6 His  pursuits  doubtless  received  the  full  sanction  and  appro- 
bation of  his  superiors  ; for,  soon  after  joining  his  Order  at  Louvain, 
he  was  sent  to  Ireland  by  Father  Hugh  Ward,  Guardian  of  the  Irish 
Convent.  In  1627,  we  find  him  engaged  in  visiting  the  various 
Franciscan  monasteries  in  Ireland,  as  well  as  other  ecclesiastical 
and  lay  repositories  of  ancient  Irish  manuscripts,  and  laboriously 
transcribing  from  them  with  his  own  most  accurate  hand  all  that 
they  contained  of  the  history  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  Ireland 
and  the  lives  of  the  Irish  saints,  as  well  as  important  tracts  relating 
to  the  civil  history  of  the  country. 6 

“ Brother  Michael  O’Clery,  who  was  eminently  qualified  for  this 
task,”  writes  Dr.  O’Donovan,  “ pursued  his  enquiry  for  about  fif- 
teen years,  during  which  period  he  visited  the  most  distinguished 
scholars  and  antiquarians  then  living,  and  transcribed  from  ancient 
MSS.  many  lives  of  saints,  several  genealogies,  martyrologies,  and 
other  monuments,  all  of  which  he  transmitted  to  Ward,  who,  how- 
ever, did  not  live  to  avail  himself  of  them  to  any  great  extent,  for 
he  died  soon  after  the  receipt  of  them,  on  the  8th  of  November, 
1635  ; but  they  proved  of  great  use  to  the  Rev.  John  Colgan,7 
jubilate  lecturer  on  theology  at  Louvain,  who  took  up  the  same 
subject  after  the  death  of  Ward.”8 

O’Clery,  during  his  stay  in  Ireland,  compiled  the  following  works : 

1.  “The  Reim  Rioghraidhe,”  which  contains  a catalogue  of  the 
kings  of  Ireland,  the  genealogies  of  the  Irish  saints,  and  the  Irish 
Calendar  of  Saints’  Days.  “There  is  a copy  of  this  work,”  writes 

* Dedication  to  his  “ Reim  Rioghraidhe,”  or  “ The  Succession  of  the  Kings  of  Ireland.  ’ 

4 In  the  dedication  to  one  of  his  books  he  informs  us  that  he  belonged  to  the  Obser-’ 

vatine  branch  of  that  great  religious  body. 

6 Dr.  O’Donovan  states  distinctly  that  O’Clery  “ did  not  enter  holy  orders”  yet  some 
writers  make  the  mistake  of  calling  him  “ Father  ” O’Clery. 

6 Prof.  Curry, 44  Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Ancient  Irish  History,”  lect.  vii. 

7 Colgan  was  also  a Franciscan. 

* Introductory  remarks  to  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  xxiii.  The  learned 
Father  John  Colgan  also  mentions  tho  foregoing  facts  in  the  preface  to  his  “ Acta  Sanc- 
torum Hibernise.”  He  says  that  Michael  O’Clery  was  esteemed  the  most  profound  Irish 
antiquarian  of  his  day. 


Michael  O'Clcry,  OS.F. 


4i 


Dr.  O’Donovan,  “in  the  library  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,9  and 
the  autograph  original  is  preserved  in  the  Burgundian  Library  at 
Brussels.  ” 

2.  “The  Leabhar  G-abhala,”  or  “Book  of  Conquests.”  Dr. 
O’Donovan  states  that  there  is  a beautiful  manuscript  copy  of  this 
work  in  the  library  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  Dublin. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  the  holy  and  indefatigable  Michael 
O’Clery  conceived  and  executed  his  greatest  work — “ The  Annals 
of  the  Four  Masters.  ” The  assistance  of  a patron  was  necessary  to 
carry  out  this  vast  literary  undertaking,  and  such  he  found  in  Fer- 
ral  O’Gara,  a generous,  noble-minded  chieftain  in  the  county  of 
Sligo.  To  him  Brother  O’Clery  dedicated  the  “Annals.”  The  fol- 
lowing is  a translation  of  the  simple  and  beautiful  dedication : 

' “ I beseech  God  to  bestow  every  happiness  that  may  conduce  to 
the  welfare  of  his  body  and  soul  upon  Ferral  O’Gara,  Lord  of  Magh 
O’Gara,  one  of  the  two  knights  of  Parliament  who  were  elected  from 
the  county  of  Sligo  to  Dublin,  this  year  of  the  age  of  Christ  1634. 

“ It  is  a thing  general  and  plain  throughout  the  whole  world,  in 
every  place  where  honor  or  nobility  has  prevailed  in  each  successive 
period,  that  nothing  is  more  glorious,  more  respectable,  or  more 
honorable  than  to  bring  to  light  the  knowledge  of  the  antiquity  of 
ancient  authors,  and  a knowledge  of  the  chieftains  and  nobles  that 
existed  in  former  times,  in  order  that  each  successive  generation 
might  know  how  their  ancestors  spent  their  time  and  their  lives, 
how  long  they  lived  in  succession  in  the  lordship  of  their  countries, 
in  dignity  or  in  honor,  and  what  sort  of  death  they  met. 

“I,  Michael  O’Clery,10  a poor  friar  of  the  Order  of  St.  Francis, 
(after  having  been  for  ten  years  transcribing  every  old  material 
which  I found  concerning  the  saints  of  Ireland,  observing  obedience 
successively  to  each  provincial  that  was  in  Ireland),  have  come 
before  you,  0 noble  Ferral  O’Gara  ! I have  calculated  on  your 
honor  that  it  seemed  to  you  a cause  of  pity,  grief,  and  sorrow  (for 
the  glory  of  God  and  the  honor  of  Ireland)  how  much  the  race  of 
Gaedhil,  the  son  of  Niul,  have  passed  under  a cloud  and  darkness, 
without  a knowledge  or  record  of  the  death  of  saint  or  virgin,  arch- 
bishop, bishop,  abbot,  or  other  dignitary  of  the  Church,  of  king 
or  of  prince,  of  lord  or  of  chieftain,  or  of  the  synchronism  or  con- 
nection of  the  one  with  the  other.  I explained  to  you  that  I 
thought  I could  get  the  assistance  of  the  chroniclers  for  whom  I 


9 At  Dublin. 


10  In  Irish,  O’Clerigh. 


42 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


had  the  most  esteem  in  writing  a book  of  annals  in  which  these 
matters  might  be  put  on  record  ; and  that  should  the  writing  of 
them  be  neglected  at  present,  they  would  not  again  be  found  to  be 
put  on  record  or  commemorated,  even  to  the  end  of  the  world. 
There  were  collected  by  me  all  the  best  and  most  copious  books  of 
annals  that  I could  find  throughout  Ireland  (though  it  was  difficult 
for  me  to  collect  them  to  one  place)  to  write  this  book  in  your 
name  and  to  your  honor;  for  it  was  you  that  gave  the  reward  of 
their  labor  to  the  chroniclers  by  whom  it  was  written,  and  it  was 
the  friars  of  the  convent  of  Donegal  that  supplied  them  with  food 
and  attendance  in  like  manner.  For  every  good  that  will  result 
from  this  book  in  giving  light  to  all  in  general,  it  is  to  you  that 
thanks  should  be  given  ; and  there  should  exist  no  wonder  or  sur- 
prise, jealousy  or  envy,  at  any  good  that  you  do,  for  you  are  of  the 
race  of  Heber,  son  of  Milesius,  from  whom  descended  thirty  of  the 
kings  of  Ireland  and  sixty-one  saints.11 

“ On  the  22d  day  of  the  month  of  January,  a.d.  1632,  this  book 12 
was  commenced  in  the  convent  of  Donegal,  and  it  was  finished  in 
the  same  convent  on  the  10th  day  of  August,  1636,  the  eleventh 
year  of  the  reign  of  our  King  Charles  over  England,  France,  Alba, 
and  over  Eire. 

“ Your  affectionate  friend, 

“Brother  Michael  O’Clery.”  13 

“ What  a simple,  unostentatious  address  and  dedication  to  so  im- 
portant a work  !”  exclaims  Professor  O’Curry.  We  gladly  join  in 
the  sentiment  of  the  great  Irish  critic. 

O’Clery,  having  collected  his  materials,  and  having  found  a 
patron  willing  to  identify  himself  with  the  undertaking  and  to 
defray  its  expenses,  betook  himself  to  the  quiet  solitude  of  the 
monastery  of  Donegal,  then  presided  over  by  his  brother,  Father 
Bernardine  O’Clery,  O.S.F.  Here  he  arranged  his  collection  of 
ancient  Irish  books,14  and  gathered  about  him  such  assistants  as  he 


11  Here  we  omit  a portion  of  the  dedication,  and  especially  the  lengthy  pedigree  of 
O’Gara. 

12  The  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

13  The  above  translation,  with  a few  slight  changes,  is  that  given  by  Prof.  O’Curry  in  his 
“Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Iiish  History.”  The  original  in  Irish  is  given  in  the 
appendix  to  the  same  work.  This  dedication,  both  in  Irish  and  English,  can  also  be  found 
in  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  vol.  i. 

14  The  names  of  the  ancient  works  used  by  the  Four  Masters  are  given  in  the  Testimo- 
nium. 


Michael  O' C levy,  O.S.F. 


43 


had  known  by  experience  to  be  well  qualified  for  carrying  out  bis 
intentions  in  the  selection  and  treatment  of  his  vast  materials. 
His  three  principal  associates  were  Conary  O’Clery,  Peregrine 
O’Clery,  and  Ferfeasa  O’Mulconry,  and  these  with  himself  are 
now  known  as  the  “Four  Masters. ” There  were  giants  in  those 
days,  for  in  little  more  than  four  years  and  a half  that  immortal 
historical  monument,  “ The  Annals  of  the  Kingdom  of  Ireland,” 
otherwise  known  as  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  was  begun 
and  completed ! The  approbations  affixed  to  the  original  manu- 
script copy  of  the  work  were  six  in  number,  one  being  from  the 
pen  of  Malachy  O’Kelly,  Archbishop  of  Tuam,  and  another  from 
Thomas  Fleming,  Archbishop  of  Dublin.  The  Testimonium  to  the 
“ Annals  ” gives  the  names  of  the  Four  Masters  and  the  authorities 
used  by  them,  and  concludes  thus  : 

“We  have  seen  all  these  books  with  the  learned  men  of  whom 
we  have  spoken  before,  and  other  historical  books  besides  them.  In 
proof  of  everything  which  has  been  written  above,  the  following 
persons  put  their  hands  to  this  in  the  convent  of  Donegal,  the 
tenth  day  of  August,  the  age  of  Christ  being  1636: 

“ Brother  Berhardike  O’Clery, 

Guardian  of  Donegal, 
“Brother  Maurice  Ulltach, 

“Brother  Maurice  Ulltach, 

“Brother  Bohaventura  O’Dohuell, 

Jubilate  Lector.”  16 

After  finishing  this  great  literary  undertaking.  Brother  O’Clery, 
it  appears,  was  recalled  to  Louvain.  Here  he  wrote  and  printed,  in 
1643,  a dictionary  or  glossary  of  difficult  Irish  words,  under  the 
title  of  “ Sanas-an  Nuadh.”  This  was  his  last  work.  According  to 
Harris,  he  died  in  1643,  aged  about  sixty-eight  years. 17 

15  O’Curry. 

16  This  Testimonium,  may  be  found  both  in  Irish  and  English  in  Prof.  O’Curry’s 
“Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Irish  History,”  or  in  the  “Annals  of  the  Four 
Masters,”  Edited  by  Dr.  O’Donovan. 

17  Of  Ccnary  O’Clery,  the  second  of  the  Four  Masters,  nothing  is  known.  “ He  ap- 
pears,” writes  Dr.  O'Donovan,  “to  have  acted  as  scribe,  and  to  have  transcribed  the 
greater  portion  of  these  Annals,  probably  at  the  dictation  of  his  brother  (Michael 
O’Clery),  or  under  his  directions,  from  other  MSS.  He  was  not  a member  of  any  religious 
order,  and  appears  to  have  had  no  property  except  his  learning.” 

Peregrine  O’Clery,  the  third  of  the  Four  Masters,  was  the  head  of  the  Tirconnell 
sept  of  the  O’Clerys.  He  wrote  in  the  Irish  language  a life  of  the  celebrated  Hugh  Roe 
O’Donnell,  who  died  in  Spain  in  1602.  Peregrine  was  a considerable  land-owner,  but  was 
dispossessed  by  the  fiendish,  thievish  system  introduced  by  the  tyrannical  Government 


44 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Passing  from  the  immortal  authors,  we  shall  now  give  the  reader 
a glance  at  the  interior  of  their  work,  that  great  treasury  of  Irish 
history.  The  full  title,  as  given  in  the  last  edition,  is  : “Annals  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Ireland,  by  the  Four  Masters,  from  the  earliest  Pe- 
riod to  1616.  Edited  from  MSS.  in  the  Library  of  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy  and  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  with  a Translation  and 
copious  Notes,  by  John  O’Donovan,  LL.D.,  M.R.I.A.,  Barrister-at- 
Law.”  18 

All  events  coming  before  the  birth  of  our  Lord  and  noted  down 
in  these  Annals  are  preceded  by  the  phrase  “ The  age  of  the  world 
3000,”  or  whatever  the  date  may  happen  to  be.  All  events  coming 
after  the  birth  of  our  Lord  are  preceded  by  the  phrase  “ The  age 
of  Christ  600,”  or  whatever  the  date  may  be. 

EXAMPLES. 

4 The  Age  of  the  World  3270.  This  was  the  first  year  of  the 
reign  of  Gann  and  Geanann  over  Ireland. 

“ The  Age  of  the  World  3273.  The  fourth  year  of  Gann  and 
Geanann,  and  they  died  at  the  end  of  this  year,  with  twenty  hun- 
dred along  with  them,  in  Crich-Liathain.  ” 19 

For  some  years,  however,  the  historical  details  are  much  longer 
than  in  the  preceding  examples. 

“ The  Age  of  Christ  157.  Conn  of  the  Hundred  Battles,  after 
having  been  thirty-five  years  in  the  sovereignty  of  Ireland,  was  slain 


of  England.  His  property  -was  stolen  from  him  because— hearthe  reason,  O just  Heaven  I— 
he  was  “a  meere  Irishman , and  not  of  English  or  British  descent  or  sirname .”  The  words 
quoted  are  taken  from  an  old  English  document  which  states  the  fact  just  mentioned. 
O’Clery’s  lands  were  forfeited  to  the  King  of  England.  He  then  removed  to  Ballyeroy, 
county  of  Mayo,  carrying  with  him  his  books,  which  were  his  chief  treasure.  At  his 
death,  in  1664,  he  bequeathed  his  precious  volumes  to  his  two  sons,  John  and  Dermot. 
This  we  learn  from  his  will,  which  is  written  in  Irish.  In  it  he  says  : “I  bequeath  the 
property  most  dear  to  me  that  I ever  possessed  in  this  world— namely,  my  books— to  my 
two  sons,  John  and  Dermot.”  This  will,  says  Dr.  O’Donovan,  in  rather  a bad  state  of  pre- 
servation, is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  library  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  Dublin. 

Nothing  is  known  of  Ferfeasa  O’Mulconry,  the  last  of  the  Four  Masters,  except  that 
he  was  a native  of  the  county  of  Roscommon  and  a hereditary  antiquary. 

18  The  title  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  ” was  first  given  these  annals  by  the  learned 
Father  John  Colgan.  In  the  preface  to  his  “ Acta  Sanctorum  Hiberniae  ” he  says  : “ On 
account  of  other  reasons,  chiefly  from  the  compilers  themselves,  who  were  four  most 
eminent  masters  in  antiquarian  lore,  we  have  been  led  to  call  them  the  ‘ Annals  of  the 
Four  Masters  ’ ” 

In  old  works  they  are  sometimes  referred  to  as  the  “ Annals  of  Donegal,”  from  the 
monastery  where  they  were  written. 

19  Crich-Liathain,  a district  in  the  county  of  Cork. 


Michael  O'  Clery,  O.S.F. 


45 


by  Tiberaite  Tireach,  son  of  Mai,  son  of  Rochraidhe,  King  of 
Ulster,  at  Tuath-Amrois.”  20 

“ The  Age  of  Christ  1172.  Brigidian  O’Kane,  successor  of 
Maidoc,21  died.” 

This  event  is  followed,  under  the  same  date,  by  eleven  other  events 
of  importance,  seven  of  which  are  deaths  of  distinguished  person- 
ages, one  a battle,  one  an  ecclesiastical  visitation  of  the  Archbishop 
of  Armagh,  one  a raid,  and  one  a synod  at  Tuam. 

“ The  Age  of  Christ  1175.  O’Brien,  Bishop  of  Kildare,  died.” 
Under  the  same  date  this  is  followed  by  twelve  other  events. 

“ The  Age  of  Christ  1185.  Auliffe  O’Murray,  Archbishop  of 
Armagh,  a brilliant  lamp  that  had  enlightened  clergy  and  laity, 
died  ; and  Fogartagh  O’Carellan  was  consecrated  in  his  place. 

“ The  west  of  Connaught  was  burned,  as  well  churches  as  houses, 
by  Donnell  O’Brien  and  the  English.”  Ten  other  events  are  noted 
down  under  this  date. 

“The  Age  of  Christ  1201.  Tomaltagh  O’Conor,  successor  of  St. 
Patrick  and  Primate  of  Ireland,  died.”  This  is  followed  by  fifteen 
other  events. 

“ The  Age  of  Christ  1205.  The  Archbishop  O’Heney  retired  into 
a monastery,  where  he  died  soon  after. 

“ Manus  O’Kane,  son  of  the  Lord  of  Kianaghta  and  Firnacreeva,22 
tower  of  the  valor  and  vigor  of  the  North,  was  wounded  by  an 
arrow,  and  died  of  the  wound.  Conor  O’Brien,  of  Brawney,  died  on 
his  pilgrimage  to  Clonmacnoise.”  Eight  other  events  follow  this 
date. 

“ The  Age  of  Christ  1252.  Conor  O’Doherty,  chief  of  Ardmire,28 
tower  of  hospitality  and  feats  of  arms  of  the  North,  died.” 

“ Great  heat  and  drought  prevailed  in  this  summer,  so  that  the 
people  crossed  the  rivers  of  Ireland  with  dry  feet.  The  reaping  of 
the  corn  crops  of  Ireland  was  going  on  twenty  days  before  Lam- 
mas,24 and  the  trees  were  scorched  by  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

“ New  money  was  ordered  by  the  King  of  England  to  be  made 26 
in  Ireland,  and  the  money  previously  in  use  was  discontinued.” 
Nine  other  events  are  recorded  under  the  foregoing  year. 

“The  Age  of  Christ  1315.  Teige  O’Higgin,  a learned  poet, 


30  Tuath-Amrois,  a place  near  Tara.  21  Maidoc  was  the  first  Bishop  of  Ferns. 

23  Kianaghta  and  Firnacreeva,  districts  in  the  present  county  of  Londonderry. 

33  Ardmire,  a district  in  the  county  of  Donegal. 

34  The  1st  of  August. 


26  Coined. 


46 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


died.”  Under  this  date  are  given  eight  other  events,  one  of  which 
is  the  landing  of  Edward  Bruce,  brother  of  the  hero  of  Bannock- 
burn, with  an  army  in  the  North. 

“The  Age  of  Christ  1566.  Mary,  the  daughter  of  Manus,  son  of 
Hugh  Duv,  son  of  Hugh  Roe  O’Donnell,  and  wife  of  Magennis, 
died  on  the  8th  of  October.”  Nine  other  events  follow  this  date. 

The  foregoing  will,  we  trust,  give  the  intelligent  reader  an  idea  of 
the  clear,  brief,  and  simple  manner  in  which  most  events  in  the 
history  of  Ireland  are  recorded  in  the  pages  of  the  “Annals  of  the 
Four  Masters.”  Some  important  events  are  given  with  more  detail 
than  others ; however,  on  this  head  more  can  be  learned  from  the 
carefully-selected  extracts  which  we  give  further  on. 

The  gigantic  labors  of  Brother  Michael  O’Clery  and  his  three 
associates  may  well  be  imagined  when  we  state  that  Dr.  John 
O’Donovan’s  edition  of  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  ” is  in 
seven  large  quarto  volumes,  splendidly  hound,  and  contains  4,215 
pages  of  closely-printed  matter.  This  was  the  first  complete 
printed  edition  of  the  “Annals”  ever  given  to  the  world.26  It 
was  issued  in  1851  from  the  press  of  the  enterprising  Mr.  George 
Smith,  of  Grafton  Street,  Dublin.  It  is  given  both  in  Irish  and  in 
English.  “The  translation,”  says  the  learned  and  accurate  Prof. 
O’Curry,  “is  executed  with  extreme  care.  The  immense  mass  of 
notes  contains  a vast  amount  of  information,  embracing  every 
variety  of  topic,  historical,  topographical,  and  genealogical,  upon 
which  the  text  requires  elucidation,  addition,  or  correction ; and  I 
may  add  that  of  the  accuracy  of  the  researches  which  have  borne 
fruit  in  that  information  I can  myself,  in  almost  every  instance, 
bear  personal  testimony.” 27 

26  Thus  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  ” remained  in  manuscript  over  two  hundred 
years  before  the  unhappy  condition  of  Ireland  would  allow  such  a precious  treasure  to  be 
entirely  given  to  the  world  in  print ! Portions,  however,  had  been  published  some  years 
before  Dr.  O’Donovan’s  grand  edition.  That  portion  of  the  “Annals”  ending  at  the  year 
a.d.  1171  was  printed  in  1826  by  Rev.  Charles  O’Connor,  librarian  to  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham. It  occupies  the  whole  of  the  third  volume  of  his  1 ‘ Rerum  Hibernicarum  Scriptores,” 
a large  quarto  of  840  pages.  “ This  edition,”  writes  Prof.  O’Curry,  “ is  certainly  valuable, 
but  it  is  very  inaccurate.”  A translation  of  the  second  part  of  the  “Annals,”  extending 
from  1171  to  1616,  by  Mr.  Owen  Connellan,  was  issued  at  Dublin  in  1846. 

27  John  O’Donovan,  LL.D.,  M.R.I.A.,  the  profoundly  learned  editor  of  the  “Annals  of 
the  Four  Masters,”  was  born  in  an  humble  farm-house  in  the  county  of  Kilkenny  July  10, 
1809.  From  his  earliest  years  he  was  devoted  to  the  history  and  language  of  his  native 
Erinn.  When  only  fifteen  years  of  age  he 'was  sent  to  Dublin  to  become  the  Gaelic  teacher 
of  Gen.  Larcom,  head  of  the  famous  Ordnance  Survey  of  Ireland.  Here  he  began  his  mis- 
sion. O’Donovan  took  his  LL.D.  at  Trinity  College,  and  became  a member  of  the  bar  in 
1847.  He  never  practised.  When  the  Queen’s  College  was  established  at  Belfast,  this  ripe 


Michael  O'  Clery , O.S.F. 


47 


The  historic  monastery  in  which  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Mas- 
ters ” were  written  was  founded  for  the  Franciscan  Friars  of  the 
Strict  Observance  in  1474  by  Hugh  Roe  O’Donnell,  chief  of  Tir- 
connell,  and  his  wife  Finola,  daughter  of  Conor  O’Brien,  King  of 
Thomond.  “ On  the  2d  of  August,  1601,”  writes  Dr.  O’Donovan, 
“the  building  was  occupied  by  a garrison  of  500  English  soldiers, 
and  the  friars  fled  into  the  fastnesses  of  the  country,  carrying  with 
them  their  chalices,  vestments,  and  other  sacred  furniture,  though 
probably  not  their  entire  library.”  In  the  storming  of  this  point  by 
the  Irish  chieftains  of  the  North,  the  venerable  old  structure  took 
fire,  and  was  soon  a heap  of  ruins.28  “ It  is  more  than  probable,” 
says  Dr.  O’Donovan,  “ that  the  library  was  destroyed  on  this  occa- 
sion. . . . After  the  restoration  of  Rory  O’Donnell  to  his  posses- 
sions, the  brotherhood  were  permitted  to  live  in  huts  or  cottages 
near  the  monastery,  whence  they  were  not  disturbed  till  the  period 
of  the  Revolution.  It  was  in  one  of  these  cottages,  and  not,  as  is 
generally  supposed,  in  the  great  monastery  now  in  ruins,  that  this 
work  was  compiled  by  the  Four  Masters.  ” 29 

and  finished  scholar  was  appointed  to  the  chair  of  Irish  history  and  archaeology.  His 
editions  and  translations  of  ancient  Irish  books  were  numerous,  but  the  greatest  work  of 
his  life,  the  work  which  gave  him  a world-wide  fame  as  an  Irish  scholar  and  antiquarian, 
was  his  complete  edition  of  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.”  For  this  great  work  he 
was  warmly  complimented  by  such  distinguished  foreigners  as  Guizot,  Hallam,  and  Jacob 
Grimm.  His  “ Irish  Grammar  ” is  the  highest  authority  on  the  laws  and  structure  of  the 
ancient  and  venerable  language  of  Ireland.  At  the  time  of  his  death  Dr.  O’Donovan  was 
associated  with  his  eminent  brother-in  law,  Prof.  Eugene  O’Curry,  in  translating  “The 
Brehon  Laws.”  He  died  in  1861.  Dr.  O'Donovan  was  a true  man,  a worthy  Irishman,  and 
a sound  and  deeply  learned  historian,  whose  name  and  labors  will  always  be  indissolubly 
connected  with  the  famous  “ Four  Masters.” 

28  Sir  Henry  Docwra,  the  English  general,  in  his  “Narrative”  says  : “Now  had  O’Don- 
nell, O’Kane,  MacBaron,  and  all  the  chiefs  of  the  country  thereabout  made  all  the  forces 
they  were  able  to  attend  the  issue  of  this  intended  meeting  of  my  lord  and  me.  . . . 
The  Abbey  of  Donegal  was  kept  only  by  a few  friars,  the  situation  of  it  close  to  the  sea, 
and  very  convenient  for  many  services,  especially  for  a step  to  take  Ballyshannon.  . . . 
I sent  500  English  soldiers  to  put  themselves  into  this  place,  which  they  did  on  the  2d  of 
August.  . . . O’Donnell  with  those  forces  returned  and  laid  siege  to  these  men,  which 
continued  at  least  a month,  and  on  the  19th  of  September  the  abbey  took  fire,  by  acci* 
dent  or  of  purpose  I could  never  learn,  but  burnt  it  was,  all  save  one  corner,  into  which 
our  men  made  retreat.  . . .”  Thus  it  was  that  the  cursed  demon  of  sacrilegious  destruc- 
tion always  followed  the  hateful  course  of  England  and  her  troops  in  Ireland.  But  as 
sure  as  the  stars  twinkle  and  the  sun  shines,  so  sure  will  a dread  day  of  reckoning  yet 
come,  and  the  long-standing  account  between  Ireland  and  England,  covering  a sad 
period  of  over  seven  centuries,  will  be  properly  balanced.  The  great  God  is  just ; He  gov- 
erns the  world  according  to  His  blessed  and  mysterious  decrees,  and  never  fails  to  punish 
iniquity  in  Elis  own  good  time. 

29  Introductory  Remarks  to  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

According  to  Dr.  Petrie,  the  MS.  copy  of  these  Annals,  now  in  the  library  of  the  Royal 
Irish  Academy,  Dublin,  “is  the  original  autograph  of  the  work.”  It  appears  that  the 
Four  Masters  made  several  copies  of  their  great  work.  “ Besides  the  copy  of  the  first 


48 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


The  remains  of  this  venerable  monastery  are  still  to  be  seen  at  a 
short  distance  from  the  town  of  Donegal. 

In  our  imperfect  remarks  on  the  saintly  and  learned  Michael 
O’Clery  and  his  unmatched  labors,  we  have  been  carried  further 
on  than  we  at  first  intended.  But  we  do  not  regret  it.  Who  that 
has  one  spark  of  true  manhood  in  him  can  refuse  his  admiration  to 
the  giant  minds  and  industrious  pens  that  planned  and  executed 
the  “ Annals  of  the  Dour  Masters”  ? The  illustrious  Chief  of  the 
Four  Masters  was  right  when  he  said  that,  should  he  then  neglect 
to  put  on  record  the  facts  contained  in  his  great  work,  “they 
would  not  again  be  found  to  be  put  on  record  or  commemorated 
even  to  the  end  of  the  world  ! ” When  any  one  asks  us.  Where  is  the 
history  of  holy  and  ancient  Erinn  ? we  point  with  pride  to  the 
“Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  a work  without  which,  says  an 
English  critic,  “the  history  of  Great  Britain  could  never  be  re- 
garded as  complete  ” ; 30  and  a work  that,  in  the  language  of  the 
learned  Professor  O’Curry,  “must  form  the  basis  of  all  fruitful 
study  of  the  history  of  Ireland.”  31  Michael  O’Clery  was  not  only 
a profound  scholar,  a great  historian,  and  a holy  religious  ; he  was 
also  a devoted  patriot.  He  lived  and  labored  for  God  and  his  loved 
native  Isle  ; and  Ireland,  her  noble  sons,  and  their  last  descendants 
shall  have  perished  from  the  earth  before  the  name  of  the  Chief  of 
the  Four  Masters  can  be  forgotten. 


FIRST  EXTRACT  FROM  THE  “ ANNALS  OF  THE  FOUR  MASTERS,” 

VOL.  I.,  P.  3-5. 

The  Age  of  the  World 32  to  this  year  of  the  Deluge  2242.  Forty 


volume,”  says  Dr.  Petrie,  “preserved  at  Stowe,  there  is  another  equally  authentic  and 
original  in  the  College  of  St.  Isidore  at  Rome.  ...  It  [the  one  at  Rome]  was  probably 
the  first  volume  of  the  copy  sent  out  to  Ward  and  used  by  Colgan.”— Address  delivered 
March  5.  1831. 

30  The  London  Athenaeum. 

31  “ Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Irish  History.” 

32  The  Age  of  the  World.— This  is  according  to  the  computation  of  the  Septuagint,  as 
given  by  St.  Jerome  in  his  edition  of  the  “Chronicon”  of  Eusebius,  from  whom,  no  doubt, 
the  Four  Masters  took  this  date.  His  words  are  : “ Ab  Adam  usque  ad  Diluvium,  anni 
sunt  MMCCXLII.  Secundum  Hebrseorum  numerum  MDCLVI.”  According  to  the  Annals 
of  Clonmacnoise  and  various  ancient  Irish  historical  poems,  1656  years  had  elapsed 
from  the  Creation  to  the  Flood,  which  was  the  computation  of  the  Hebrews.— See  Keat- 
ing's” History  of  Ireland  ” (Haliday’s  edition,  page  145),  and  D.  O’Conor’s  “Prolegomena 
ad  Annales,”  p.  li.,  and  from  p.  cxxvii.  to  cxxxv. 


Michael  O'Clery , O.S.F. 


49 


days  before  the  Deluge,  Ceasair33  came  to  Ireland84  with  fifty  girls 
and  three  men — Bith,  Ladhra,  and  Fintain,  their  names.  Ladhra 
died  at  Ard-Ladhrann,35  and  from  him  it  is  named.  He  was  the 
first  that  died36  in  Ireland.  Bith  died  at  Sliabh  Beatha,37  and  was 
interred  in  the  earn  of  Sliabh  Beatha,38  and  from  him  the  mountain 
is  named.  Ceasair  died  at  Cuil-Ceasra,  in  Connaught,  and  was  in- 


33  Ceasair.— This  story  of  the  coming  of  Ceasair,  the  grand-daughter  of  Noah,  to  Ire« 
land,  is  given  in  the  “ Book  of  Leinster,”  fol.  2,  b ; in  all  the  copies  of  the  “ Book  of  Inva  - 
sions’’  ; in  the  “ Book  of  Fenagh  ” ; and  in  Giraldus  C'ambrensis’s  “ Topographica  Hi 
bernia,”  dist.  ii.  c.  i.  It  is  also  given  in  Mageoghegan’s  translation  of  the  Annals  of 
Clonmacnoise  ; but  the  translator  remarks : “ My  author,  Eochy  O’Flannagan,  giveth  no 
credit  to  that  fabulous  tale.”  Hanmer  also  gives  this  story,  as  does  Keating  ; but  they 
do  not  appear  to  believe  it,  “because,”  says  the  latter,  “ I cannot  conceive  how  the  Irish 
antiquaries  could  have  obtained  the  accounts  of  those  who  arrived  in  Ireland  before 
the  Flood,  unless  they  were  communicated  by  those  aerial  demons  or  familiar  sprites 
who  waited  on  them  in  times  of  paganism,  or  that  they  found  them  engraved  on  stones 
after  the  Deluge  had  subsided.”  The  latter  opinion  has  been  propounded  by  Giraldus 
( ambrensis  (ubi  supra)  in  the  twelfth  century  : “Sed  forte  in  aliqua  materia  inscripta, 
lapidea  scilicet  vel  lateritia  (sicut  de  arte  musica  legitur  ante  diluvium)  inventa  istorum 
memoria,  fuerat  reseruata.”  O’Flaherty  also  notices  this  arrival  of  Ceasair,  “ forty  days 
before  the  Flood,  on  the  15th  day  of  the  Moon,  being  the  Sabbath.”  In  the  Chronicon 
Scotorum,  as  transcribed  by  Duald  Mac  Firbis,  it  is  stated  that  this  heroine  was  a daugh- 
ter of  a Grecian.  The  passage  runs  as  follows  : “ Ki.  u.  f.  1.  x.  M.  ix.  c.  ix.  Anno  Mundi. 
In  hoc  anno  venit  filia  alicvjus  de  Grecis  ad  Hiberniam,  cui  nomen  Hera  vel  Berbha  [Banbha ] , 
vel  Ceasar  et  l.  filice  ef  in , viri,  cumea.  Ladhra  gubernator  fuit  qui  primus  in  Hibernia  tu- 
mulatus  est.  Hoc  non  narrant  Antiquarii  Scotorum .” 

34  Ireland.— According  to  the  “ Book  of  Lecan,”  fol.  272,  a , the  Leabhar- Gabhala  of  the 
O’Clerys,  and  Keating’s  “ History  of  Ire  land,”  they  putin  at  Dun-na-mbrac,  in  Corca-Duib- 
hne,  now  Corcaguiny,  a barony  in  the  west  of  Kerry.  There  is  no  place  in  Corcaguiny 
at  present  known  as  having  borne  the  name  ; and  the  Editor  is  of  opinion  that  “ Corca- 
Duibhne”  is  an  error  of  transcribers  for  “ Corca-Luighe,”  and  that  the  place  referred  to 
is  Dunnamba,  in  Corea  Luigbe,  now  Dunamark  in  the  parish  of  Kilcommoge,  barony  of 
Bantry,  and  county  of  Cork. 

35  Ard-Ladhrann — i.e.,  Ladhra’s  Hill  or  Height.  This  was  the  name  of  a place  on  the  sea- 
coast,  in  the  east  of  the  present  county  of  Wexford.  The  name  is  now  obsolete  ; but 
the  Editor  thinks  that  it  was  applied  originally  to  Ardamine,  in  the  east  of  the  county 
of  Wexford,  where  there  is  a curious  moat  near  the  sea-coast. — See  Colgan’s  “ Acta  Sanc- 
torum,” pp.  210,  217,  and  Duald  Mac  Firbis’s  Genealogical  work  (Marquis  of  Drogheda’s 
copy,  pp.  23,  210,  217).  The  tribe  of  Cinel-Cobhthaigh  were  seated  at  this  place. 

36  The  first  that  died , etc. — Literally,  “the  first  dead  [man]  of  Ireland.”  Dr.  O’Conor  ren- 
ders this:  “ Occisus  est  Ladra  apud  Ard-Ladron,  et  ab  eo  nominatur.  Erat  ista  prima 
occisio  in  Hibernia.”  But  this  is  very  incorrect,  and  shows  that  this  translator  had  no 
critical  knowledge  of  the  language  of  these  Annals.  Connell  Mageoghegan,  who  trans- 
lated the  Annals  of  Clonmacnoise  in  1627,  renders  it  thus:  “He  was  the  first  that  ever 
dyed  in  Ireland,  of  whom  Ard  Leyrenn  (where  he  died,  and  was  interred)  took  the  name.” 

37  Sliab  Beatha — i.e .,  Bith’s  Mountain.  Now  anglici  Slieve  Beagh,  a mountain  on  the 
confines  of  the  counties  of  Fermanagh  and  Monaghan. 

38  Cam  of  Sliabh  Beatha. — This  cam  still  exists,  and  it  is  situated  on  that  part  of  the 
mountain  of  Slieve  Beagh  which  extends  across  a portion  of  the  parish  of  Clones  belong 
ing  to  the  county  of  Fermanagh.  If  this  earn  be  ever  explored,  it  may  furnish  evidences 
of  the  true  period  of  the  arrival  of  Bith. 


50 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


terred  in  Carn-Ceasra.”  From  Fintan  is  (named)  Feart-Fintain,44 
over  Loch  Deirgdheirc. 

From  the  Deluge  until  Parthalon  took  possession  of  Ireland, 
278  years ; and  the  age  of  the  world  when  he  arrived  in  it,  2520. 
The  age  of  the  world41  when  Parthalon  came  into  Ireland,  2520 
years.  These  were  the  chieftains  who  were  with  him : Slainge, 
Laighlinne,  and  Rudhraidhe,  his  three  sons  ; Dealgnat,  Nerbha, 
Ciochbha,  and  Cerbnad,  their  four  wives. 

SECOND  EXTRACT  FROM  THE  “ANNALS  OF  THE  FOUR 
MASTERS,”  VOL.  II.,  PAGES  743-781. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1000.  The  twenty-second  year  of  Mael- 
seachlainn.  Maelpoil,  Bishop  of  Cluain-mic-Nois,  and  successor 
of  Feichin,  and  •Flaithemh,  Abbot  of  Corcach,  died.  Fearghal, 
son  of  Conaing,  lord  of  Oileach,  died.  Dubhdara  Ua  Maelduin, 

39  Cam  Ceasra,  in  Connaught—  O’  Flaherty  states  in  his  “Ogygia,”  part  iii.  c.i.,  that  Knoc- 
mea,  a hill  in  the  barony  of  Clare  and  county  of  Galway,  is  thought  to  be  this  Carn 
Ceasra,  and  that  Cuil-Ceasra  was  near  it.  This  hill  has  on  its  summit  a very  ancient 
earn,  or  sepulchral  heap  of  stones  ; but  the  name  of  Ceasair  is  not  remembered  in  con- 
nection with  it,  for  it  is  believed  that  this  is  the  carn  of  Finnbheara,  who  is  believed  by 
the  peasantry  to  be  king  of  the  fairies  of  Connaught.  Geraldus  Cambrensis  states  (ubi 
supra)  that  the  place  where  Ceasair  was  buried  was  called  Caesarae  Tumulus  in  his  own 
time  : “ Littu-s  igitur  in  quo  navis  ilia  primum  applicuit,  nameularum  littus  vocatur,  and 
.in  quo  praefata  tumulus  nominatur.”  But  O’Flaherty's  opinion  must  be  wrong,  for  in 

Eochaidh  O’Flynn’s  poem  on  the  early  colonization  of  Ireland,  as  in  the  “ Book  of  Lein- 
ster,” fol.  3,  Carn-Ceasra  is  placed  over  the  fruitful  [river]  Boyle.  It  is  distinctly  stated  in 
the  Leabhar-Gabhala  of  the  O'Clerys  that  Carn-Ceasair  was  on  the  bank  of  the  river 
Boyle,  and  that  Cuil-Ceasra  was  in  the  same  neighborhood.  Cuil-Ceasra  is  mentioned  in 
the  Annals  of  Kilronan,  at  the  year  1571,  as  on  the  river  Boyle. 

40  Fearth  Fintan — i.e.,  Fintain’s  Grave.  This  place,  which  was  otherwise  called  Tul- 
.tuine,  is  described  as  in  the  territory  of  Aradh,  over  Loch  Deirgdheirc,  now  Lough  Derg, 
. an  expansion  of  the  Shannon  between  Killaloe  and  Portumna.  According  to  a wild  le- 
gend, preserved  in  Leabhar-na-h-Uidhri,  in  the  Library  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  this 
Fintan  survived  the  Deluge,  and  lived  till  the  reign  of  Dermot,  son  of  Fergus-Ceirbheoil, 
having  during  this  period  undergone  various  transmigrations;  from  which  O’Flaherty 
infers  that  the  Irish  Druids  held  the  doctrine  of  the  Metempsychosis:  “Ex  hac  autem 
fabula  colligere  est  Pythagoricae  ac  latonicae  scholae  de  animarum  migratione,  seu  in 
quaevis  corpora  reditu  deliramenta  apud  Ethnicos  nostros  viguiss  ” — “ Ogygia,”  p.  4.  This 
Fintan  is  still  remembered  in  the  traditions  of  the  country  as  the  Mathusala  of  Ireland, 
and  it  is  believed  in  Connaught  tba>t  he  was  a saint,  and  that  he  was  buried  at  a locality 
called  Kilfintany,  in  the  south  of  the  pari-h  of  Kilcommon,  barony  of  Erris,  and  county  of 
Mayo.  Dr.  Hanmer  says  that  this  traditional  fable  gave  rise  to  a proverb,  common  in 
Ireland  in  his  own  time:  “If  I had  lived  Fintan's  years , I could  say  much .” 

41  The  age  of  the  world.— The  Annals  of  Clonmacnoise  synchronize  the  arrival  of  Partha- 
lon with  the  twenty-first  year  of  the  age  of  the  Patriarch  Abraham,  and  in  the  twelfth 
year  of  the  reign  of  Semiramis,  Empress  of  Assyria,  a m.  1969,  or  313  years  after  the 
Flood.  O’Flaherty  adopts  this  chronology  in  his  “ Ogygia,”  part  iii.  c.  ii.  Giraldus 
Cambrensis  writes  that  “Bartholanus  Serae  filius  de  stirpe  Japhet  filii  Noe”  came  to 
Ireland  in  the  three  hundredth  year  after  the  Deluge. 


Michael  O'Clcry , O.S.F. 


51 


lord  of  Feara-Luirg,42  was  slain.  Laidhgnen  Ua  Leoggan  was 
slain  by  the  Ulidians.  Niall  Ua  Ruairc  was  slain  by  the  Cinel- 
Conaill  and  Hugh  Ua  Neill.  Ceannfaeladh,  son  of  Conchobhar, 
lord  of  [Ui-Conaill]  Grabhra,  and  Righbhardan,  son  of  Dubhcron, 
died.  A great  depredation  by  the  men  of  Munster  in  the  south 
of  Meath,  on  the  Nones  of  January ; but  Aenghus,  son  of  Car- 
rach,  with  a few  of  his  people,  overtook  them,  so  that  they  left 
behind  the  spoils  and  a slaughter  of  heads  with  him.  The  cause- 
way of  Ath-Luain  was  made  by  Maelseachlainn,  son  of  Domhnall, 
and  by  Cathal,  son  of  Conchobhar.  The  causeway  of  Ath-liag43 
was  made  by  Maelseachlainn  to  the  middle  of  the  river.  Diarmaid 
Ua  Lachtnain,  lord  of  Teathbha,  was  killed  by  his  own  people. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1001.  The  twenty-third  year  of  Maelseach- 
lainn. Colum,  Abbot  of  Imleach-Ibhair  [died].  Treinfher,  son 
of  Celecan,  Prior  of  Ard-Macha,  was  slain.  ConaingUa  Fiachrach, 
Abbot  of  Teach-Mochua ; Cele,  son  of  Suibhne,  Abbot  of  Slaine  ; 
Cathalan  Ua  Corcrain,  Abbot  of  Daimhinis  Maenach ; Ostiarius44  of 
Ceanannus ; and  Flann,  son  of  Eogham,  chief  Brehon 45  of  Leath- 
Chuinn,  died.  Maelmhuaidh,  son  of  Duibhghilla,  lord  of  Dealbhna- 
Beathra,  died.  Sitric,  son  of  Amhlaeibh,  set  out  on  a predatory 
excursion  into  Ulidia,  in  his  ships,  and  he  plundered  Cill-cleithe48 

42  Feara-Luirg— i.e .,  the  men  of  Lurg — now  a barony  in  the  north  of  the  county  of  Fer- 
managh. The  family  name,  O’Maelduin,  is  now  anglicized  Muldooa,  without  the  prefix 
Ua  or  O’. 

43  Ihe  Causeway  of  Athlibq. — This  is  imperfectly  given  by  the  Four  Masters.  It  should 
be  : “The  causeway,  or  artificial  ford,  of  Ath-liag”  [at  Lanesborough]  “was  made  by 
Maelseachlainn,  King  of  Ireland,  and  Cathal  Ua  Conchobhair,  King  of  Connaught,  each 
carrying  his  portion  of  the  work  to  the  middle  of  the  Shannon.’’ 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“ A.D.  1000. — A change  of  abbots  at  Ardmach,  viz.,  Maelmuire  mac  Eocha,  instead  of 
Muregan  of  Bohdovnai.  Forgall  mac  Conaing,  King  of  Aileach,  died.  Nell  O’Royrke 
killed  by  Kindred-Owen  and  Conell.  Maelpoil,  Coarb  of  Fechin,  mortuns  est.  An  army  by 
Munstermen  into  the  south  of  Meath,  where  Aengua  mac  Carrai  mett  them,  rescued 
their  praies,  and  committed  theire  slaghter.  The  battle  ” [ recte , the  causeway]  “ of 
Athlone  by  Maelseachlainn  and  Caell  O’Conor.” — “Cod.  Clarend.,”  tom.  49.  Most  of 
the  same  events  are  given  in  the  Annals  of  Clonmacnoise  at  the  year  994,  as  follows  .- 

“AD.  994”  [ recte , 1001].—“  They  of  the  borders  of  Munster  came  to  the  neather  parts  of 
Meath,  and  there  made  a great  preye,  and  were  overtaken  by  Enos  mac  Carrhie  Calma, 
who  took  many  of  their  heads.  Ferall  mac  Conyng,  Prince  of  Aileagh,  died.  Neale 
O’Royrck  was  killed  by  Tyrconnell,  and  Hugh  O’Neale  of  Tyrone.  Moylepoyle,  Bushopp 
of  Clonvicknose,  and  Couarb  of  Saint  Feichyn,  died.  King  Moyleseaghlyn,  and  Cabal] 
O’Connor  of  Connaught,  made  a bridge  at  Athlone  over  the  Synan.  Dermott  O’Laghtna, 
prince  of  the  land  of  Teaffa,  was  killed  by  some  of  his  own  men.  King  Moyleseaghlyq 
made  a bridge  at  Ath-Lyag  ” [now  Lanesborough]  to  the  one  halfe  of  the  river.” 

44  Ostiarius—  i.e.,  the  porter  and  bell-ringer.  See  Petrie’s  “ Round  Towers,”  pp.  37? 
378. 

45  Chief  brehon — i.e.,  the  chief  judge. 

49  Cill-cleithe.— Now  Kilclief,  in  the  barony  of  Lecale  and  county  of  Dow* 


52 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


and  Inis  Cumhscraigh,47  and  carried  off  many  prisoners  from  both. 
An  army  was  led  by  Aedh,  son  of  Domhnall  Ua  Neill,  to  Tailltin, 
but  he  returned  back  in  peace  and  tranquillity.  Connaught  was 
plundered  by  Aedh,  son  of  Domhnall.  Ceamackan,  son  of  Flann, 
lord  of  Luighne,  went  upon  a predatory  excursion  into  Tearnmhagh, 
and  he  was  killed  by  Muircheartach  Ua  Ciardha,  Tanist  of  Cairbre. 
A hosting  by  Brian,  with  the  foreigners,48  Leinstermen,  and  Mun- 
stermen  to  Ath-Luain,  so  that  he  weakened  the  Ui-Neill  of  the 
South  and  the  Connaughtmen,  and  took  their  hostages.  After  this 
Brian  and  Maelseachlainn,  accompanied  by  the  men  of  Ireland,  as 
well  Meathmen,  Connaughtmen,  Munstermen,  and  Leinstermen, 
as  the  foreigners,  proceeded  to  Dun-Dealgan,49  in  Conaille-Muir- 
theimhne.  Aedh,  son  of  Domhnall  Ua  Neill,  heir-apparent  to  the 
sovereignty  of  Ireland,  and  Eochaidh,  son  of  Ardghar,  King  of 
Ulidia,  with  the  Ulidians,  Cinel-Conaill,  Cinel-Eoghain,  and 
Airghialla,  repaired  to  the  same  place  to  meet  them,  and  did  not 
permit  them  to  advance  further,  so  that  they  separated  in  peace, 
without  hostages  or  booty,  spoils  or  pledges.  Meirleachan,  i.e .,  the 
son  of  Conn,  lord  of  Gaileanga  and  Brodubh,  i.e.,  the  son  of  Diar- 
maid,  were  slain  by  Maelseachlainn.  A change  of  abbots  at  Ard- 
Macha,  i.e.,  Maelmuire,  son  of  Eochaidh,  in  the  place  of  Muireagan, 
of  Both-Domhnaigh.  An  army50  was  led  by  Brian  to  Ath-cliath, 
and  he  received  the  hostages  of  Meath  and  Connaught. 

47  Inis-Cumhscraigh — i.e.,  Cumhscrach’s  Island,  now  Inishcourcey,  a peninsula  formed 
by  the  western  branch  of  Loch  Cuan  near  Saul,  in  the  county  of  Down.  See  Harris’s 
“ History  of  the  County  of  Down,”  p.  37  ; “ The  Dublin  Journal,”  vol.  i.,  pp.  104,  396  ; and 
Reeves's  “ Eccles.  Antiq.  of  Down  and  Connor,”  etc.,  pp.  44,  93,  379. 

48  With  the  foreigners. — Since  Brian  conceived  the  ambitious  project  of  deposing  the 
monarch,  Maelseachlainn,  he  invariably  joined  the  Danes  against  him,  and  this  is  suffi- 
cient to  prove  that  the  subjugation  of  the  Danes  was  not  Brian’s  chief  object.  The 
Munster  writers,  with  a view  of  exonerating  Brian  from  the  odium  of  usurpation,  and 
investinghis  acts  with  the  sanction  of  popular  approval,  have  asserted  that  he  had  been, 
previously  to  his  first  attack  upon  the  monarch,  solicited  by  the  king  and  chieftains  of 
Connaught  to  depose  Maelseachlainn  and  become  supreme  monarch  himself  ; but  no 
authority  for  this  assertion  is  to  be  found  in  any  of  our  authentic  annals. 

49  Dun-Dealgan. — Now  Dundalk,  in  the  county  of  Louth. 

50  An  Army , etc.—  It  is  stated  in  the  Royal  Irish  Academy  copy  of  these  Annals  that 
this  entry  is  from  Ledbhar  Leoain.  The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events 
under  this  year  : 

“AD.  1031. — An  army  by  Bryan  to  Athlone,  that  he  carried  with  him  the  pledges  of 
Connaught  and  Meath.  The  forces  of  Hugh  mac  Donell  into  Tailten,  and  went  back  in 
peace.  Trenir  mac  Celegan,  Secnap  of  Ardmach,  killed  by  Macleginn  mac  Cairill,  King 
of  Femvay.  The  praies  of  Connaught  with  Hugh  mac  Donell.  Merleehan,  King  of  Gal- 
eng,  and  Broda  mac  Diarmada  occisi  mnt  by  Maelseachlainn.  Colum,  Airchinnech  of 
Imlech  Ivair,  and  Cahalan,  Airchinnech  of  Daivinis,  mortui  sunt.  Cernachan  mac  Flainn, 
King  of  Luigne,  went  to  Fernvai  for  booty,  where  Murtagh  O’Kiargay,  heyre  of  Carbry, 


Michael  O' C levy,  O.S.F. 


53 


The  Age  of  Christ  1002.  The  first  year  of  Brian,  son  of  Cein- 
neidigh,  son  of  Lorcan,  in  sovereignty  over  Ireland.  Seventy-six 
years 51  was  his  age  at  that  time.  Dunchadh  Ua  Manchain,  successor 
of  Caeimhghin ; Flannchadh  Ua  Ruaidhine,  successor  of  Ciaran, 
son  of  the  artificer,  of  the  tribe  of  Corca-Mogha  ; Eoghan,  son  of 
Ceallach,  archinneach  of  Ard-Breachain  ; [and]  Donnghal,  son  of 
Beoan,  Abbot  of  Tuaim-Greine  [died].  A great  depredation  by 
Donnchadh,  son  of  Donnchadh-Finn,  and  the  Ui-Meith,  and  they 
plundered  Lann  Leire  ; but  Cathal,  son  of  Labhraidh,  and  the 
men  of  Breagha  overtook  and  defeated  them,  and  they  left  behind 
their  booty ; and  they  were  afterwards  slaughtered  or  led  captive, 
together  with  Sinnach  Uah  Uarghusa,  lord  of  Ui-Meith.  Cathal, 
son  of  Labhraidh,  and  Lorcan,  son  of  Brotaidli,  fell  fighting  face 
to  face.  Donnghal,  son  of  Donncothaigh,  lord  of  Gaillanga,  was 
slain  by  Trotan,  son  of  Bolgargait  (or  Tortan,  son  of  Bolgar- 
gaith),  son  of  Maelmordha,  lord  of  Feara  Cul,  in  his  own  house. 
Geallach,  son  of  Diarmaid,  lord  of  Osraighe,  was  slain  by  Donn- 
chadh, son  of  Gillaphadraig,  the  son  of  his  father’s  brother.  Aedh, 
son  of  O'Coinfhiacla,  lord  of  Teashbha,  was  slain  by  the  Ui  Con- 
chille.  Conchobhar, 52  son  of  Maelseachlainn,  lord  of  Corca-Modh- 
ruadh,  and  Aicher  Ua  Traighthech,  with  many  others,  were  slain 
by  the  men  Umhall.  Aedh,  son  of  Echthighern,  was  slain  in  the 
oratory  of  Fearna-mor-Maedhog  by  Mael-na-mbo. 53 


was  killed.  Forces  by  Bryan  and  Maelseachlainn  to  Dun  Delgan — i.e.,  Dundalk— to  seek 
hostages, but  returned  with  cessation.'’ 

Of  these  entries  the  Annals  of  Clonmacnoise  contain  only  the  two  following  : 

“ A.D.  995”  [recfe,  1002]. — “Moylemoye  mac  Dowgill,  prince  of  Delvin  Beathra  (now 
called  Mac  Coghlan’s  Countrey),  died.  Colume,  Abbot  of  Imleach,  died.” 

51  Seventy-six  Years.—  See  a.d.  925,  where  it  is  stated  that  Brian,  son  of  Kennedy,  was 
born  in  that  year  ; and  that  he  was  twenty-four  years  older  than  King  Maelseaghlainn, 
whom  he  deposed.  This  is  very  much  to  be  doubted,  for,  according  to  the  Annals  of 
Ulster,  Brian,  son  of  Kennedy,  was  born  in  941,  which  looks  more  likely  to  be  the  true 
date.  He  wa?,  therefore,  about  sixty-one  years  old  when  he  deposed  Maelseachlainn, 
who  was  then  about  fifty-three. 

52  Conchobhar.— He  was  the  progenitor  after  whom  the  family  of  O'Conchobhair,  or 
O’Conor,  of  Corcomroe,  in  the  west  of  the  county  of  Clare,  took  their  hereditary  sur- 
name. 

53  Mael-na-mbo— i.e.,  chief  of  the  cows.  His  real  name  was  Donnchadh,  and  he  was  the 
grandfather  of  Murchadh,  after  whom  the  Mac  Murroughs  of  Leinster  took  their  here- 
ditary surname. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  notice  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“A.D.  1002. — Brienus  regnare  incepit.  Flanncha  O’Ruain,  Coarb  of  Kiaran  ; Duncha 
O’Manchan,  Coarb  of  Caemgin  ; Donngal  mac  Beoan,  Airchinnech  of  Tuomgrene;  Owen 
mac  Cellay,  Airchinnech  of  Ardlrekan,  quieverunt  in  Christo.  Sinach  O’h  Uargusa,  King  of 
Meith”  [Ui  Meith],  “and  Cahal  mac  Lavraa,  heyre  of  Meath,  fell  one  with  another” 
[ recte , fell  the  one  by  the  other].  “Ceallach  mac  Diarmada,  King  of  Ossory ; Hugh 


54 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


The  Age  of  Christ  1003.  The  second  year  of  Brian.  Aenghus, 
son  of  Breasal,  successor  of  Cainneach,  died  on  his  pilgrimage  at 
Ard  Macha.  Dubhshlaine  Ua  Lorcain,  Abbot  of  Im leach  Ibhair, 
died.  Eochaidh  Ua  Flann again, 54  airchinneach  of  the  Lis-aeid- 
headh*5  of  Ard-Macha,  and  of  Cluain-Fiachna,66  the  most  distin- 
guished historian  of  the  Irish,  died.  An  army  was  led  by  Brian 
and  Maelseachlainn  into  North  Connaught,  as  far  as  Traigh- 
Eothaile,67  to  proceed  around  Ireland;  but  they  were  prevented  by 
the  Ui-Neill  of  the  North.  Domhnall,  son  of  Flannagan,  lord  of 
Feara-Li,  died.  Iarnan,  son  of  Finn,  son  of  Duibhghilla,  was 
slain  by  Core,  son  of  Aedh,  son  of  Duibhghilla,  in  the  doorway  of 
the  oratory  of  Gailinne,58  by  treachery.  Two  of  his  own  people 
slew  this  Core  immediately,  by  which  the  name  of  God  and 
Machonog  was  magnified.  Brian,  son  of  Maelruanaidh,  lord  of 
West  Connaught,  was  slain  by  his  own  people.  The  two  O’Canan- 
nains  were  slain  by  O’Maeldoraidh.  Muireadhach,  son  of  Diar- 

O’Coniacla,  King  of  Theva  ; Conor  Mac  Maelsechlainn,  King  of  roremurua  ; and  Acher 
surnamed  of  the  fat,”  ["were]  “ all  killed.  Hugh  mac  Echtiern  killed  within  the  oratory 
of  Ferna-more-Alaog.” — “Cod.  Clarend.,”  tom.  49. 

The  accession  of  Brian  to  the  monarchy  of  Ireland  is  noticed  in  the  Annals  of  Clon- 
macnoise  under  the  year  995  ; but  the  translator  has  so  interpolated  the  text  with  his 
own  ideas  of  the  merits  of  Brian  as  to  render  it  useless  as  an  authority.  His  words 
are  : 

“ A.D.  996.— Bryan  Borowe  took  the  kingdom  and  government  thereof  out  of  the  hands 
of  King  Moyleseaghlyn,  in  such  a manner  as  I do  not  intend  to  relate  in  this  place  ” [Tigher- 
nach  says  per  dolum— Ed.]  “ He  was  very  well  worthy  of  the  government,  and  reigned 
twelve  years,  the  most  famous  king  of  his  time,  or  that  ever  was  before  or  after  him,  of 
the  Irish  nation.  For  manhood,  fortune,  maners,  laws,  liberality,  religion,  and  other 
good  parts,  he  never  had  his  peer  among  them  all  ; though  some  chroniclers  of  the 
kingdome  made  comparisons  between  him  and  Con  Kedcagh,  C'onarie  More,  and  King 
Neale  of  the  Nine  Hostages ; yett  he,  in  regard  of  the  state  of  the  kingdome,  when  he 
came  to  the  government  thereof,  was  judged  to  bear  the  bell  from  them  all.” 

54  Eochaidh  T7a  Flannagain.—  Connell  Mageoghegan,  who  had  some  of  his  writings,  calls 
him  “Eoghie  O’Flannagan,  Archdean  of  Armagh  and  Clonfeaghna.”  See  note  b,  under 
a.m.  2224  ; and  extract  from  Leabhar-na-h  Uuidhiiin  Petrie’s  “ Round  Towers  of  Ireland,” 
pp.  103, 104.  O'Reilly  has  given  no  account  of  this  writer  in  his  “ Descriptive  Catalogue 
of  Irish  Writers.” 

55  Lis-aeidheadh — i.e.,  Fort  of  the  Guests. 

56  Cluain  Fiuchna.—  Now  Clonfeakle,  a parish  in  the  north  of  the  county  of  Armagh. 
The  ancient  parish  church  stood  in  the  townland  of  Tullydowey,  in  a curve  of  the  river 
Blackwater,  on  the  north  or  Tyrone  side.  See  the  Ordnance  Survey  of  the  county  of 
Tyrone,  sheet  62.  Joceline  calls  this  church  Cluain-Jiacail , in  his  “ Life  of  St.  Patrick,”  c. 
87 ; but  in  the  Taxation  of  1306,  and  in  the  Registries  of  the  Archbishops  Sweteman, 
Swayne,  Mey,  Octavian,  and  Dowdall,  it  is  called  by  the  name  of  Cluain-Fiachna, 
variously  orthographied,  thus:  “Ecclesia  de  Clonfeoyna,”  Taxation  1306;  “ Ecclesia 
parochialis  de  Clonfekyna,”  Regist.  Milv.  Sweteman , a.d.  1367,  fol.  45,  b ; “ Clonfeguna,” 
Reg.  Swayne,  a.d.  1428,  fol.  14,  b ; “ Clonfekena,”  Reg.  Mey , i.  23,  b , iv.  16,  b ; “ Clonfekena,” 
Reg.  Octavian,  fol.  46,  b ; “ Clonfekena,”  Reg.  Dowdall , a.d.  1535,  p.  251. 

67  Traigh-Eothile.—K  large  strand  near  Ba  lysadare  in  the  county  of  Sligo. 

M Gailinne.— Now  Gallon,  in  the  barony  of  Garrycastle  and  King's  County. 


Michael  O'Clery , O.S.F. 


55 


maid,  lord  of  Ciarraiglie-Luaclira,  died.  Naeblian,  son  of  Mael- 
chiarain,  chief  artificer  of  Ireland,  died.  The  battle  of  Craebh- 
tulcha,69  between  the  Ulidians  and  the  Cinel-Eogliain,  in  which  the 
Ulidians  were  defeated.  In  this  battle  were  slain  Eochaidh,  son  of 
Ardghair,  King  of  Ulidia,  and  Dubhtuinne,  his  brother ; and  the 
two  sons  of  Eochaidh — i.e.,  Cuduiligh  and  Domhnall ; Gairbhidh, 
lord  of  Ui-Eathach;  Gillapadraig,  son  of  Tomaltach  ; Cumuscacli, 
son  of  Elathrai • Dubhshlangha,  son  of  Aedh ; Cathal,  son  of 
Etroch ; Conene,  son  of  Muircheartach,  and  the  most  part  of  the 
Ulidians  in  like  manner,  and  the  battle  extended  as  far  as  Dun- 
Eathach60  and  Druimbo.61  Donnchadh  Ua  Loingsigh,  lord  of  Dal- 
Araidhe  and  royal  heir  of  Ulidia,  was  slain  on  the  following  day 
by  the  Cinel-Eoghain.  Aedh,  son  of  Domhnall  Ua  Neill,  lord  of 
Oileach,  and  heir-apparent  to  the  sovereignty  of  Ireland,  fell  in  the 
heat  of  the  conflict,  in  the  fifteenth  year  of  his  reign  and  the 
twenty-ninth  of  his  age.  A battle  between  Tadhg  Ua  Ceallaigh 
with  the  Ui-Maine,  and  the  men  of  West  Meath  assisting  the  Ui- 
Maine  [on  the  one  side],  and  the  Ui-Eiachracli  Aidhne,  aided  by 
West  Connaught  [on  the  other],  wherein  fell  Gillaceallaigh,  son  of 
Comhaltan  Ua  Cleirigh,  lord  of  Ui-Fiachrach ; Conchobhar,  son  of 
Ubban ; Ceannfaeladli,  son  of  Ruaidhri,  and  many  others.  Finn, 


58  Craebh-tulcha—i.e.,  the  Spreading  Tree  of  the  Hill.  This  is  probably  the  place  now- 
called  Crewe,  situated  near  Glenavy,  in  the  barony  of  Upper  Massareene,  and  county  of 
Antrim. 

60  Dun  Eathach.— Now  Duneight,  in  the  parish  of  Blaris,  or  Lisburn,  on  the  River  La- 
gan. See  Reeves’s  “ Ecclesiastical  Antiquities  of  Down  and  Connor, ’’  etc.,  pp.  47,  342. 

61  Druim-bo — i.e.,  Hill  of  the  Cow — now  Dunbo,  a townland  containing  the  ruins  of  an 
ancient  Irish  Round  Tower,  situated  in  a parish  of  the  same  name,  in  the  barony  of 
Upper  Castlereagh,  and  county  of  Down.  Ibid.,  p.  342,  note 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events  under  this  year : 

“A.D.  1003. — Aenghus  mac  Bresail,  Coarb  of  Cainnech,  in  Ardmach,  in  peregrinatione 
quievit.  Eocha  O’Elannagan,  Airchinnech  of  Lissoigl  ’’  [at  Ardmach],  “ and  Cluoan 
Fiachna,  cheife  poet  and  chronicler,  68  anno  etatis  sue  obiit.  Gillakellai  mac  Comaltan, 
King  of  Fiachrach  Aigne,  and  Byran  mac  Maelruanai,  occisi  sunt.  Donell  mac  Flannagan, 
King  of  Fer-Li,  and  Mureach  mac  Diarmada,  King  of  Ciarray  Luoachra,  moriuntur.  The 
battle  of  Krivtelcha,  betwene  Ulster  and  Kindred-Owen,  where  Ulstermen  were  over- 
throwne.  Eocha  mac  Ardgar,  King  of  Ulster,  there  killed  Duvtuinne,  his  brother,  his 
two  sonns,  Cuduly  and  Donell,  and  the  slaughter  of  the  whole  armyboth  good  and  bade, 
viz.,  Garvith,  King  of  O’Nehach,  Gilpatrick  mac  Tomaltay,  Gumascach  mac  Flathroy, 
Duvslanga  mac  Hugh,  Cahalan  mac  Etroch,  Conene  mac  Murtagh,  and  most  of  Ulster- 
men ; and  pursued  the  slaughter  to  Dunechdach  and  to  Drumbo,  where  Hugh  mac 
Daniell,  King  of  Ailech,  was  killed  ; but  Kindred-Owen  saith  that  he  was  killed  by  them- 
selves. Donncha  O’Longsi,  King  of  Dalnarai,  killed  by  Kindred-Owen  per  dolum.  Forces 
by  Bryan  to  Traohaila  to  make  a circuit,  untill  he  was  prevented  by  Tyrone.  Two 
O’Canannans  killed  by  O’Muldoray.  Duvslane  O’Lorkan,  Airchinnech  of  Imlech  Ivair, 
quievit.  Maelsechlainn,  King  of  Tarach,  fell  off  his  horse,  that  he  was  like  to  die/' 
— “ Cod.  Clarend./’  tom.  49. 


56 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


son  of  Marcan,  Tanist  of  Ui  Maine,  fell  in  tlie  heat  of  the  conflict. 
Domhnall,  son  of  Flannagan,  died.  Madadhan,  son  of  Aenghus, 
chief  of  Gaileanga,  Beaga,  and  Feara-Cul,  was  slain. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1004.  The  third  year  of  Brian.  Domhnall, 
son  of  Maichniadh,  Abbot  of  Mainstir-Buithe,  a bishop  and 
holy  senior,  died.  St.  Aedh,  lector  of  Frefoit,  bishop,  wise  man, 
and  pilgrim,  died  after  a good  life  at  Ard-Macha,  with  great  honor 
and  veneration.  In  lamentation  of  him  was  said  : 

“ The  wise  man,  the  archbishop, 

The  saint  of  God  of  comely  face, 

Apostleship  has  departed  from  us, 

Since  Aedh  departed  from  the  side  of  Teamhair,68 
Since  Aedh  of  sweet  Breaghmhagh  hveth  not, 

Of  bright  renown,  in  sweet  verses  sung  ; 

A loss  is  the  gem,  shining  and  pleasant, 

The  learning  of  Ireland  has  perished  in  him.” 

Maelbrighde  Ua  Rimlieadha,  Abbot  of  la,  died.  Domhnall,  son 
of  Niall,  Abbot  of  Cill-Lamhraighe,63  died.  Foghartach,  Abbot 
of  Leithghlinn  and  Saighir,  died.  Muireadhach,  lord  of  Conaille, 
was  slain  by  the  Mughdhorna.  Gillacomhgliaill,  son  of  Ardghar, 
and  his  son,  and  two  hundred  along  with  them,  were  slain  by  Mael- 
ruanaidh,  son  of  Ardghar,  contending  for  the  kingdom  of  Ulidia. 
A hosting  by  Brian,  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  with  the  men  of  the  South 
of  Ireland,  into  Cinel-Eoghain  and  Ulidia,  to  demand  hostages. 
They  proceeded  through  Meath,  where  they  remained  a night  at 
Tailltin.  They  afterwards  marched  northwards,  and  remained  a 
week  at  Ard-Macha ; and  Brian  left  twenty  ounces  of  gold  [as  an 
offering]  upon  the  altar  at  Ard-Macha.  After  that  they  went  into 
Dal-Araidhe,  and  carried  off  the  pledges  of  the  Dal-Araidhe  and 
Dal-Fiatach  in  general.  Ingeirci,  lord  of  Conailli,  was  slain. 
Ath-cliath  was  burned  by  the  people  of  South  Breagha  by  secrecy. 
Leath-Chathail  was  plundered  by  Flaithblieartach  Ua  Neill,  and 
Aedh,  son  of  Tomaltach,  lord  of  Leath-Chathail,  was  slain  by 

63  From  the  side  of  Teamhair. — This  alludes  to  the  position  of  Trefoid,  now  Trevet,  in 
Meath.  This  passage  is  incorrectly  translated  by  Dr.  O’Conor,  which  is  less  excusable 
as  Colgan  renders  it  correctly  (Trias  Thaum.) 

63  Oill-Lamhraighe. — In  the  gloss  to  the  Feilire-Amguis,  at  6th  of  December,  the  church 
of  Cill-Lamhraighe,  cf  which  Gobban  Mac  Hi  Lanairech  was  the  patron,  is  placed  in  Ui 
Cairthenn,  in  the  west  of  Ossory.  It  is  tho  church  now  called  Killamery,  situated  in  the 
bcrony  of  K0II3,  in  the  county  of  Kilkenny.  There  is  a tombstone  with  a very  ancient 
inscription  near  this  church. 


Michael  O' Clery,  O.S.F. 


57 


6im.  A battle  was  gained  at  Loch-Bricrenn  64  by  Flaithbheartach 
over  the  Ui-Eathach.  and  the  Ulidians,  where  Artan,  royal  heir  of 
Ui-Eathach,  was  slain. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1005.  The  fourth  year  of  Brian.  Finghin, 
Abbot  of  Ros  Cre,  died.  Dunchadh,  son  of  Dunadhach,  lector  of 
Cluain-mic-Nois,  and  its  anchorite  afterwards,  head  of  its  rule  and 
history,  died ; he  was  the  senior  of  the  race  of  Conn-na-mbocht. 
Maelruanaidh,  son  of  Aedh  Ua  Dubhda,  lord  of  Ui  Fiachrach- 
Muirisge,  and  his  son,  i.e.,  Maelseachlainn,  and  his  brother,  i.e., 
Gebhennach,  son  of  Aedh,  died.  A great  prey  was  made  by  Flaith- 
bheartach, son  of  Muircheartach,  lord  of  Aileach,  in  Conaille- 
Muirtheimhne ; but  Maelseachlainn,  King  of  Teamhair,  overtook 
him  [and  his  party],  and  they  lost  two  hundred  men  by  killing  and 
capturing,  together  with  the  lord  of  Ui-Fiachrach  Arda-sratha. 
Cathal,  son  of  Dunchadh,  lord  of  Gaileanga  Mora,  was  slain. 
Echmhilidh  Ua  h Aitidhe,  lord  of  Ui-Eathach,  was  slain  by  the 
Ulidians  themselves. 

Extract  from  the  Book  of  Cluain-mic-Nois,65  and  the  Book 
of  the  Island,66  i.e.,  the  Island  of  the  Saints  in  Loch  Ribh.  A 
great  army  was  led  by  Brian,  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  into  Cinel- 
Conail  and  Cinel-Eoghain  to  demand  hostages.  The  route  they 
took  was  through  the  middle  of  Connaught,  over  Eas-Ruaidh, 
through  the  middle  of  Tir-Conaill,  through  Cinel-Eoghain,  over 

84  Loch-Bricrenn.— Now  Loughbrickland,  in  the  county  of  Down.  The  Annals  of  Ulster 
record  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“ A.D.  1004. — Hugh  O Flanagan,  Airchirnech  of  Maine-Coluim-Cill”  [now  Moone,  in  the 
south  of  the  county  of  Kildare. — Ed.]  ; “ Ragnal  mac  Gofray,  King  of  Islands  ; Conor  mac 
Daniell,  King  of  Loch  Behech ; Maelbryde  O’Rimea,  Abbot  of  Aei  ; Donell  mac  Macnia, 
Airehinnech  of  Mainister,  in  Christo  moriui  sunt.  Gilcomgail,  King  of  Ulster,  killed 
Maelruanay,  his  owne  brother.  Hugh  mac  Tomalty  killed  by  Flavertagh  O’Neil, 
the  day  he  spoyled  Lecale.  Muregan  of  Bothdonay,  Coarb  of  Patrick,  in  the  72d  year 
of  his  age,  died.  Hugh  of  Treod,  cheife  in  learning  and  prayer,  mortuus  est  in  Ardmach. 
A battle  between  the  men  of  Scotland  at  Monedir,  where  the  King  of  Scotland,  Cinaeth- 
mac-Duiv,  was  slain.  An  overthrow  at  Lochbrickrenn  given  to  Ulstermen  and  O’Ne 
hachs,  where  Artan,  heyre  of  Ehaches,  fell.  Great  forces  by  Bryan,  with  the  lord 
and  nobility  of  Ireland  about  him  to  Ardmach,  and  left  20  ounces  of  gold  upon 
Patrick’s  altar,  and  went  back  with  pledges  of  all  Ireland  with  him.”— “ Cod.  Clarend.,” 
tom.  49. 

65  Book  of  Cluain-mic-Nois. — This  is  probably  the  chronicle  translated  by  Connell  Mac  - 
geoghegan  in  1G27  ; but  this  passage  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  translation. 

66  The  Boole  of  the  Island. — This  was  a book  of  Annals,  which  were  continued  by  Augus- 
tin Magraidin  to  his  own  time,  a.d.  1405.  Ware  had  a part  of  these  annals,  with  some 
additions  made  after  Magraidin’s  death.  See  Harris’s  edition  of  Ware’s  “ Writers  of 
Ireland,”  p.  87  ; Colgan’s  “Acta  Sanctorum,”  p.  5;  and  Archdall’s  “ Monast.  Heb.,”p. 
442.  These  annals  have  not  yet  been  identified,  if  extant. 


58 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Feartas  Camsa,97  into  Dal-Iieada,  into  Dal-Araiclhe,  into  Ulidia, 
into  Conaille-Muirtheimhne,  and  they  arrived  about  Lammas  at 
Bealacli-duin. 98  The  Leinstermen  then  proceeded  southward  across 
Breagha  to  their  territory,  and  the  foreigners  69  by  sea  round  east- 
wards [southwards  ?]  to  their  fortress.  The  Munstermen  also  and 
the  Osraighi  went  through  Meath  westwards 70  to  their  countries. 
The  Ulidians  rendered  hostages  on  this  occasion  ; but  they  [Brian 
Borumha  and  his  party]  did  not  obtain  the  hostages  of  the  races  of 
Conall  and  Eoghan.  Mael-na-mbo,  lord  of  Ui-Ceinnsealaigh,  was 
killed  by  his  own  tribe.  Maelruanaidh,  son  of  Ardghar,  King  of 
Ulidia,  was  slain  by  Madadhan,  son  of  Domhnall,  after  being  one 
half-year  in  the  government  of  the  province.  Madadhan,  son  of 
Domhnall,  King  of  Ulidia,  was  killed  by  the  Tore,  i.e.,  Dubh- 
tuinne,  in  the  middle  of  Dun-Leathghlaise,  in  violation  of  the 
guarantees  of  the  saints  of  Ireland.  Dubhtuinne,  i.e.,  the  Tore, 
King  of  Ulidia,  was  slain,  through  the  miracles  of  God  and  Patrick, 
by  Muireadhach,  son  of  Madadhan,  in  revenge  of  his  father.  Muire- 
gen  Bocht,  of  Both-Domhnaigh,  successor  of  Patrick,  died;  seventy 
years  his  age. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1006.  The  fifth  year  of  Brian.  Ceannfailadh, 
airchinneach  of  Druim-mor-Mocholmog;  Caicher,  son  of  Maenach, 
Abbot  of  Mungairid;  and  Ceallach  Ua  Meanngorain,  airchinneach 

87  Feartas-Camsa. — i.e.,  the  ford  or  crossing  of  Camus.  This  was  the  name  of  a ford  on 
the  river  Bann,  near  the  old  church  of  Camus-Macosquin.  See  Colgan’s  “ Acta  Sancto- 
rum,” p.  147  ; and  Reeves’s  “ Ecclesiastical  Antiquities”  of  Down  and  Connor,  etc.,  pp. 
342-388. 

68  Bt  alach-duin— From  the  references  to  the  sea  and  the  plain  of  Bregia  in  this  passage, 
it  would  appear  that  the  Bealach-duin  here  mentioned  was  in  the  present  county  of 
Louth.  It  is  probably  intended  for  Bealach-Duna-Dealgan — i.e.,  the  road  or  pass  of 
Dundalk. 

89  The  Foreigners.— i.e.,  the  Danes,  who  were  Brian  Borumha’s  allies,  and  who  assisted 
him  in  deposing  Maelseachlainn  II.,  and  in  weakening  the  power  of  the  northern  Ui  Neill. 

70  Westwards. — The  writer  is  not  very  accurate  here  in  describing  the  points  of  the 
compass.  Westwards  will  apply  to  the  men  of  Connaught,  but  not  to  those  of  Ossory,  who 
dwelt  southwards  of  the  point  of  their  dispersion. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“ A.D.  1005.—  Armeach  macCoscrai,  bishop  and  scribe  of  Ardmach,  and  Finguine,  abbot 
of  Roscre,  mortui  sunt.  Maelruanai  O’Duvdai,  his  sonn,  Maelsechlainn,  and  his  cosen, 
Gevvennach,  mortui  sunt.  Ehnmili  O’Haty,  King  of  Ouchach,  by  Ulster,  Maelruanai  mac 
Flannagan,  by  the  Conells,  and  Cahalan,  King  of  Galeng,  occisi  sunt.  Forces  about  Ireland 
by  Bryan  into  Connaught,  over  Esroe,  into  Tir-Conell,  through  Kindred-Owen,  over  Fer- 
tas-Camsa,  in  Ulster,  in  Aenach-Conaill  until  Lammas  to  Bealach-Maion  ” [rectc,  duiri], 
“until  they  submitted  to  Patrick’s  reliquos”  [recte,  to  Patrick's  clergy],  “and  to  his 
Coarb.  Maelmuire  mac  Eochaa.  Battle  between  Scotsmen  and  Saxons,  where  Scotsmen 
were  discomfitted  with  a great  slaughter  of  their  good  men.  Maelnambo,  King  of  Cinnse- 
lai,  killed  by  his  owne  [a  suis  occisus  est\  ; “ Gilcomgaill,  mac  Ardgair,  mic  Macdugan,  King 
of  Ulster,  killed  by  his  brother,  Maelruanai  mac  Ardgair.”—”  Cod.  Clarend.,”  tom.  49. 


Michael  O'Clery , O.S.F. 


59 


of  Coreach,  died.  Fiachra  Ua  Focarta,  priest  of  Cluain-fearta-Bre- 
nainn,  died.  Of  him  was  said : 

‘ Of  all  I traversed  of  Ireland, 

Both  field  and  church, 

I did  not  get  cold  or  want, 

Till  I reached  the  fair  Cluain-fearta. 

0 Christ  ! we  would  not  have  parted  in  happiness 
Were  it  not  for  Fiachra  of  the  sweet  language.” 

Tuathal  Ua  Maoilrnacha,  a learned  man,  and  comharba  of  Patrick 
in  Munster  ; and  Robhartach  Ua  h Ailghinsa,  anchorite  of  Cluain- 
mic-Nois,  died ; he  was  of  the  tribe  of  Breaghmnaine.  Trenfhear 
Ua  Baigheallain,71  lord  of  Dartraighe,  was  slain  by  the  Cinel- 
Conaill  on  Loch-Eirne.  Coconnacht,  son  of  Dunadhaigh,  chief  of 
Sil-Anmchadha,  was  slain  by  Murchadh,  son  of  Brian  [Borumha] 
Ua  Dunghalaigh,  lord  of  Muscraighe-thire  ; slew  him  in  the  vicinity 
of  Lothra.  Muireadhach,  son  of  Criclian,  resigned  the  successor- 
ship  of  Colum  Cille  for  the  sake  of  God.  The  renewal  of  the  fair  of 
Tailltin  by  Maelseaclilainn ; and  Feardomhnac  was  appointed  to 
the  successorship  of  Colum  Cill,  by  advice  of  the  men  of  Ireland. 
The  Great  Gospel  of  Colum  Cill  was  stolen  at  night  from  the 
western  Erdomh  72  of  the  great  church  of  Ceanannus.  This  was  the 
principal  relic  of  the  Western  world  on  account  of  its  singular 
cover,  and  it  was  found  after  twenty  nights  and  two  months,  its 
gold  having  been  stolen  off:  it  and  a sod  over  it.  An  army  was  led 


71  Trenfhear  Ua  Baoigheallain. — This  name  would  now  be  anglicized  Traynor  O’Boylan. 
The  O’Boylans,  now  Boylans,  were  chiefs  of  Dartry-Coininse,  the  present  barony  of  Dartry, 
in  the  county  of  Monaghan,  adjoining  Lough  Erne. 

72  Erdomh , i.e .,  the  porticus,  sacristy,  or  lateral  building  attached  to  the  great  church  of 
Kells.  See  Petrie's  “Round  Towers  of  Ireland,”  pp.  433-438. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  notice  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“A.D.  1006. — Maelruana  mac  Ardgair  killed  by  Madagan  mac  Donell.  Cellach  O’Menn- 
goran,  Airchinnech  of  Cork,  quievit.  Trener  O’Boyllan,  King  of  Dartry,  killed  by  Kindred- 
Connell  at  Loch  Erne.  Madagan  mac  Donell,  king  of  Ulster,  killed  by  Tork,  in  St.  Bride's 
Church,  in  the  midest  of  Dundalenglas.  Cuconnacht  mac  Dunai  killed  by  Bryan  per 
dolum.  An  army  by  Flahvertach  O’Nell  into  Ulster,  that  he  brought  seven  pledges  from 
them,  and  killed  the  King  of  Lecale,  Cu-Ula  mac  Aengusa.  Forces  by  Bryan  into  Kin- 
dred-Owen  to  Dunerainn,  nere  Ardmach,  and  brought  with  him  Criciden.  Coarb  of  Fin- 
nen  Maibile,  who  was  captive  from  Ulster  with  Kin dred-Owen.  The  Tork,  King  of  Ulster, 
killed  by  Mureach  mac  Crichain,  renounced  ” [ rede , resigned]  “ the  coarbship  of  Colum 
Cill  for  God.  The  renewing  of  the  fa/ire  of  Aenach  Taillten  by  Maelsechlainn.  Ferdov- 
nach  ” [was  installed]  “in  the  coarbship  of  Columkill  by  the  advice  of  Ireland  in  that 
faire.  The  book  called  Socel  mor,  or  Great  Gospell  of  Colum  Cill,  stolen.”— “ Cod.  Cla- 
rend. tom.  49.  The  entry  relatir  g to  the  stealing  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  C olumbkille  is  left 
imperfect  in  the  old  translation  of  the  Annals  of  Ulster,  but  in  O Conor’s  edition  the 
passage  is  complete,  and  agrees  with  the  text  of  the  Four  Masters. 


6o 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


by  Flaitlibheartacli  Ua  Neillin  to  Ulidia,  and  carried  off  seven  hos- 
tages from  them,  and  slew  the  lord  of  Death- Chathail,  i.e.,  Cun- 
ladli,  son  of  Aenghus.  Domhnall,  son  of  Dubhtuinne,  King  of 
Ulidia,  was  slain  by  Muireadhach,  son  of  Madudhan,  and  Uargh- 
aetli  of  Sliabh  Fuaid.  Airmeadhach,  son  of  Cosgrach,  bishop  and 
scribe  of  Ard-Macha,  died. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1007.  The  sixth  year  of  Brian.  Muir- 
eadhach, a distinguished  bishop,  son  of  the  brother  of  Ainmire 
Boclit,  was  suffocated  in  a cave 73  in  G-aileanga  of  Corann.  Fear- 
domhnach,  successor  of  Finnen  of  Cluain-Iraird,  died.  Finshnechta 
Ua  Fiachra,  Abbot  of  Teach-Mochna  ; and  Tuashal  O’Conchobhair, 
successor  of  Finn  tan,  died.  Maelmaire  Ua  Gearagain,  successor 
of  Cainneach  and  Ceileachair,  son  of  Donncuan,  son  of  Ceinneidigh, 
Abbot  of  Tir-da-ghlas,  died.  A victory  was  gained  by  Aenghus, 
son  of  Carrach,  over  the  Feara  Ceall,  wherein  fell  Demon  Gatlach 
Ua  Maelmhuaidh.  Great  frost  and  snow  from  the  eighth  of  the  ides 
of  January  till  Easter.  Muireadhach,  74  son  of  Dubhtuinne,  King 
of  Ulidia  [was  slain]. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1008.  The  seventh  year  of  Brian.  Cathal, 
son  of  Carlus,  successor  of  Cainneach ; Maelmuire  Ua  h Uchtain, 
comharba  of  Ceanannus,  died.  EchthighearnUa  Goirmghilla,  died. 
Dubhchobhlaigh,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Connaught  and  wife  of 
Brian,  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  died.  Tadhg  Dubhshuileaeh,75  son  of 

73  A Cave.—' This  is  probably  the  cave  of  Keshcorran,  in  the  barony  of  Corran  and 
county  of  Sligo,  connected  with  which  curious  legends  still  exist  among  the  peasantry. 

74  Muireadhach.  —This  is  inserted  in  a modern  hand,  and  is  left  imperfect.  The  Annals 
of  Ulster  notice  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“ A.D.  1007. — Ferdovnach,  Coarb  of  Kells,  vizt  Cenannas  ; Celechair,  mac  Duncuan  mic 
Cinedi,  Coarbof  Colum  mac  (Jrivthainn  ; and  Maelmuire,  Coarb  of  Cainnech,  in  Christo 
darmierunt.  Mureach  mac  Madugan,  heyre  of  Ulster,  killed  by  his  own.  Fachtna, 
Coarb  of  Finian  of  Clondraird,  quievit.  Great  frost  and  snow  from  the  first  ” [recte, 
sixth]  “Id.  of  January  untill  Easter.” — “Cod.  Clarend  ,”  tom.  49. 

76  Tadhg  Dubhshuileaeh— i.e..  Teigc,  Thaddaeus,  or  Timothy,  the  Blackeyed. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“A.D.  1008. — Extream  revenge  by  Maelsechlainn  upon  Lenster.  Cahal  mac  Carlusa, 
Coarbh  of  Cainnech,  and  Maelmuire  O' Huchtan,  Coarbof  Kells,  mortuisunt.  Maelan-in- 
gai-moir,  i.  of  the  great  speare,  King  of  O’Dorhainn,  killed  by  Kindred-Owen  in  Ardmach, 
ind  the  midest  of  Trian-mor,  for  the  uprising  of  both  armyes.  Donncha  O Cele  blinded 
Flahvertach  at  Inis-Owen,  and  killed  him  after.  An  overthrow  given  to  Connaght  byBref- 
nymen  ; and  another  by  Connaght  given  them.  An  army  by  Flahvertach  O'Nell  to  the 
men  of  Bregh,  from  whom  he  brought  many  cowes.  Maelmorra,  King  of  Lenster,  gott  a 
fall,  and  burst  ” [broke]  “ his  legg. 

“ Duvchavlay,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Connaght,  wife  to  Bryan  mac  Cinnedy,  mortua 
est.  The  oratory  of  Ardmach  this  yeare  is  covered  with  lead  ’ moratorium  Ardmachain 
hoc  anno  plumbo  tegitur ].  “ Clothna  mac  Aengusa,  chief  poet  of  Ireland,  died.”— “Cod. 
Clarend.,”  tom.  49. 


Michael  OClery , O.S.F. 


61 


the  King  of  Connaught,  was  slain  by  the  Conmaicni.  Gussan,  son 
of  Ua  Treassach,  lord  of  Ui-Bairrche,  died.  Madudlian,  lord  of 
Sil-Anmchadha,  was  slain  by  his  brother.  An  army  was  led  by 
Flaithbheartach  Ua  Neill  against  the  men  of  Breagha,  and  carried  off 
a great  cattle  spoil.  A battle  was  gained  oyer  the  Conmaicni  by  the 
men  of  Breifne.  A battle  was  gained  over  the  men  of  Breifne  by 
the  Connaughtmen.  Clothna,  son  of  Aenghus,  chief  poet  of  Ire- 
land in.  his  time,  died.  Gusan,  son  of  Treasach,  lord  of  Ui-Bairche, 
died. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1009  [rede  1010].  The  eighth  year  of  Brian. 
Conaing,  son  of  Aedhagan,  a bishop,  died  at  Cluain-mic-Nois  ; he 
was  of  the  tribe  of  the  Mughdhorna-Maiglien.  Crunnmhael,  a bi- 
shop, died.  Scannlan  Ua  Dunghalain,  Abbot  of  Dun-Leathghlaise, 
was  blinded.  Diarmaid,  successor  of  Bearrach  ; Muireadhach,  son 
of  Mochloingseacli,  airchinneach  of  Mucnamb ; Maelsuthain  Ua 
Cearffhaill,  [one]  of  the  family  of  Inis-Faithleann,76  chief  doctor  of 
the  Western  world  in  his  time,  and  lord  of  Eoghanacht  of  Locli- 
Lein,77  died.  Marcan,78  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  head  of  the  clergy  of 
Munster,  died.  The  comharba  of  Colum,  son  of  Crimhthainn,  i.e ., 
of  Tir-da-ghlas,  Innis-Cealtra,  and  Cill-Dalua,  died.  Cathal,  son  of 
Conchobhar,  King  of  Connaught,  died  after  penance  ; he  was  the 
grandson  of  Tadlig  of  the  Tower.  Dearbhail,  daughter  of  Tadhg, 
son  of  Cathal,  died.  Cathal,  son  of  Dubhdara,  lord  of  Feara-Ma- 
nach,79  died.  Muireadhach  Ua  h Aedha,  lo,rd  of  Muscraighe  [died]. 
An  army  was  led  by  Brian  to  Claenloch  80  of  Sliabh-Fuaid,  and  he 
obtained  the  hostages  of  the  Cinel-Eoghain  and  Ulidians.  Aedli, 

78  Inis-Faithleann.— Now  Innisfallen,  an  island  in  the  Lower  Lake  of  Killarney,  in  the 
county  of  Kerry,  on  which  are  the  ruins  of  several  ancient  churches. 

77  Eoghanacht  Locha-Lein.—A.  territory  in  the  county  of  Kerry,  comprised  in  the  pre- 
sent barony  of  Magunihy,  in  the  southeast  of  that  county. 

78  Marcan.— He  was  a brother  of  Brian  Borumha. 

79  Feara-Manach.Sovr  Fermanagh. 

80  Claenloch—  Situated  near  Newtown  Hamilton,  in  the  county  of  Armagh. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“ A.D.  1009. — Cahal  mac  Conor,  King  of  Connaght”  [in  penitentia  moritu r\,  “ Mureach 
O’ Hugh,  King  of  Muskry,  and  Cahal  mac  Duvdara,  King  of  Fermanach,  mortui  sunt. 
Maelsuhain  O’Cerval,  chiefe  learned  of  Ireland,  and  King  of  Boganacht  Locha-Lein.  Makan 
mac  Cinnedy,  Coarb  of  Colum  mac  Crivhainn,  of  Inis-Celtra  ; and  Killdalua,  and  Mure- 
ach  mac  Mochloingse,  Airchinnech  of  Mucknav,  in  Christo  dormierunt.  Hugh  mac  Cuinn, 
heyre  of  Aileach,  and  Duncuan,  King  of  Mugom,  occisi  sunt.  Forces  by  Bryan  to  Claen- 
loch of  Sliave-Fuaid,  that  he  got  the  pledges  of  Leth  Cuinn,  i.”  [the  northern \ “half  of 
Irland.  Estas  torrida , Autumnus  fructuosus.  Scannlan  O’  Dungalain,  Frince  of  Dundaleh- 
glas,  was  forcibly  entered  into  his  mansion”  [; recte , was  forcibly  entered  upon  in  his 
mansion],  “ himself  blinded  after  he  was  brought  forth  at  Finavar  by  Nell  mac  Duv- 
thuinne.  Dervaile,  Tegmac  Cahal’ s daughter,  mortua  est “ Cod.  Clarend.,”  tom.  49. 


62 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


son  of  Conn,  royal  heir  of  Oileach  ; and  Donncuan,  lord  of  Mugh- 
dhorna,  were  slain. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1010  \recte  1011].  The  ninth  year  of  Brian. 
Muireadliach,  son  of  Crichan,  successor  of  Colum-Cille  and  Adam- 
nan,  a learned  man,  bishop,  and  virgin,  lector  of  Ard-Macha,  and 
intended  successor  of  Patrick,  died  after  the  seventy-fourth  year  of 
his  age,  on  the  fifth  of  the  calends  of  January,  on  Saturday  night81 
precisely ; and  he  was  buried  with  gre&t  honor  and  veneration  in  the 
great  church  of  Ard-Macha,  before  the  altar.  Flann  Ua  Donn- 
cliadha,  successor  of  Oenna,82  died.  Flaitlibheartach  Ua  Cethenen, 
successor  of  Tighearnach,  a [venerable]  senior  and  distinguished 
bishop,  wTas  mortally  wounded  by  the  men  of  Breifne,  and  he  after- 
wards died  in  his  own  church  at  Cluain-Evis.  Dubhthach,  son  of 
Iarnan,  airchinneach  of  Dearmhach  ; Dalach  of  Disert-Tola,  succes- 
sor of  Feichin  and  Tola,  [and]  a distinguished  scribe  ; [and]  Fachtna, 
successor  of  Finnen  of  Cluain-Iraird,  died.  An  army  was  led  by 
Brian  to  Magh-Corrann,83  and  he  took  with  him  the  lord  of  Cinel- 
Conaill,  i.e,,  Maelruanaidh  Ua  Maeldoraidh,  in  obedience  to  Ceann- 
Coradh.84  Maelruanaidh  Ua  Domhnaill,85  lord  of  Cinel-Luighdheach, 
was  slain  by  the  men  of  Magh-Ithe.  Oenghus  Ua  Lapain,  lord  of 
Cinel-Enda,86  was  slain  by  the  Cenil-Eoghain  of  the  Island.87  Mur- 

81  On  Saturday  Night. — These  criteria  clearly  show  that  the  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters 
as  well.as  the  Annals  of  Ulster,  are  antedated  at  this  period  by  one  year.  In  the  year 
1010,  the  fifth  of  the  Calends  of  January,  or  28th  of  December,  fell  on  Friday,  as  appears 
from  the  Dominical  letters,  and  of  the  cycle  of  the  moon.  But  the  next  year,  1011,  the 
fifth  before  the  Calends  of  January,  or  28th  of  December,  fell  on  Saturday. 

82  Oenna — i.e.,  Endeus  of  Killeany  in  Aranmore,  an  island  in  the  Bay  of  Galway. 

83  Magh-Corrann.— Not  identified. 

84  Ceann-  Coradh—i.e. , Head  of  the  Weir,  now  anglicized  Kincora.  This  was  the  name  of 
a hill  in  the  present  town  of  Killaloe,  in  the  county  of  Clare,  where  the  kings  of  Tho- 
mond  erected  a palace.  It  extended  from  the  present  Roman  Catholic  chapel  to  the  brow 
of  the  hill  over  the  bridge,  but  not  a vestige  of  it  remains.  The  name  is  still  retained  in 
Kincora  Lodge,  situated  not  far  from  the  original  site  of  Brian  Borumha’s  palace. 

85  Ua  Domhnaill.— Now  anglice  O’Donnell.  This  is  the  first  notice  of  the  surname  Ua 
Domhnaill  to  be  found  in  the  Irish  annals.  This  family,  who,  after  the  English  invasion, 
became  supreme  princes  or  kings  of  Tirconnell,  had  been  previously  chiefs  of  the  can- 
tred  of  Cinel-Luighdheach,  of  which  Kilmacrenan,  in  the  county  of  Donegal,  was  the  prin- 
cipal church  and  residence.  They  derive  their  hereditary  surname  from  Domhnall,  son 
of  Eigneachan,  who  died  in  the  year  901,  who  was  son  of  Dalach,  who  died  in  868,  who 
was  the  youngest  son  of  Muircheartach,  son  of  Ceannfaeladh,  son  of  Gorbh,  son  of  Ro- 
nan,  son  of  Lughaidh,  from  whom  was  derived  the  tribe-name  of  Cinel-Luigheach,  son 
of  Sedna,  son  of  Fearghus  Ceannfoda,  i.e.,  Fergus  the  Longheaded,  son  of  Conall  Gulban, 
scm  of  Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  monarch  of  Ireland  in  the  beginning  of  the  fifth 
century. 

88  Cinel-Enda. — A territory  lying  between  Lough  Foyle  and  Lough  Swilly,  in  the  present 
county  of  Donegal. 

37  The  Cinel-Eoghain  of  the  Island— i.e.,  of  Inis-Eoghain,  now  the  barony  of  Inishowen, 


Michael  G Clery , OS.F. 


63 


chadh,  son  of  Brian,  with  the  men  of  Munster,  the  Leinstermen 
with  the  IJi  Neill  of  the  South,  and  Flaithbheartach,  son  of  Muir- 
cheartach,  lord  of  Oileach,  with  the  soldiers  of  the  North,  to  plunder 
Cinel-Luiglidheach,  and  they  carried  off  three  hundred  and  a great 
prey  of  cattle.  Domhnall,  son  of  Brian,  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  son 
of  the  King  of  Ireland,  died.  An  army  was  led  by  Flaithbheartach 
Ua  Neill  to  Dun-Eathach ; and  he  burned  the  fortress  and  demol- 
ished the  town,  and  he  carried  off  pledges  from  Niall,  son  of  Dubh- 
thuinne.  Aedli,  son  of  Mathghamhain,  royal  heir  of  Caiseal,  died. 
Fealan,  son  of  Dunlaing,  lord  of  Ui-Buidhe,  died. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1011  \recte  1012].  The  tenth  year  of  Brian. 
A great  malady 88 — namely,  lumps  and  griping — at  Ard-Macha  from 
Allhallowtide  till  May,  so  that  a great  number  of  the  seniors  and 
students  died,  together  with  Ceannfaeladh  of  Sabhall,  bishop, 
anchorite,  and  pilgrim;  Maelbrighde  Mac-an-Ghobhann,  lector  of 
Ard-Macha ; and  Scolaighe,  son  of  Clercen,  a noble  priest  of  Ard- 
Macha.  These,  and  many  others  along  with  them,  died  with  this 
sickness.  Martin,  Abbot  of  Lughmhadh ; Cian,  successor  of  Cain- 
neach;  Caenchomrac  Ua  Scannlain,  airchinneach  of  Daimhinis  ; 
Maclonain,  Abbot  of  Ros-Cre;  and  Oonnmhach  Ua  Tomhrair, 
priest  and  chief  singer  of  Cluain-mic-Nois,  died.  An  army  was 
led  by  Flaithbheartach,  son  of  Muircheartach,  into  Cinel-Conaill, 


in  the  county  of  Donegal.  The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events  under  this 
year : 

“ A.D.  1010  ” [recte,  1011].—“  Dunaach  in  Colum  Cill’s  in  Ardmach;  Flaihvertagh  O’Cehi- 
nan,  Coarb  of  Tiamach,  cheife  bushop  and  anchorite,  killed  by  Brefnemenin  his  owne  eit- 
tie.  Mureach  O’Crichan,  Coarb  of  Colum  Cill,  and  Lector  of  Ardmach,  in  Christo  mor- 
tnus  esf.  Flavertach  O'Nell,  King  of  Ailech,  with  the  young  men  of  the  Fochla,  and 
Murcha  Bryan's  sonn,  with  Mounsternmen,  Lenster,  and  the  south  O’Neils,  spoyled  Kin- 
dred-Conell,  from  whence  they  brought  300  captives  with  many  cowes.  Bryan  and  Mael- 
sechlainn  againe  in  campe  at  Anaghduiv. 

“ Maelruanay  O’Donell,  King  of  Kindred-Lugach,  killed  by  the  men  of  Magh-Itha.  Aen- 
gus  O’Lapan,  King  of  Kindred-Enm,  killed  by  Kindred-Owen  of  the  Hand.  Hugh  mac 
Mathganna,  heyre  of  Cashill,  mortuus  est.  An  army  by  Flaivertach  O’Nell  against  mac 
Duvthuinne  to  Dun-Echach,  burnt  the  said  Dun,  broocke  the  towne,  and  tooke  Nell  mac 
Duvthuinne's  pledges. 

“ An  army  by  Bryan  to  Macorainn,  and  carried  with  him  the  King  of  Kindred-Conell 
close”  [prisoner]  “ to  Cenn-Cora,  i.  Maelruanai  O’Maeldorai.  Delach  of  Disert-Tolai, 
Coarb  of  Fechin  ” [bona  senectute],  “ in  Christo  mortuus  est.'' — “ Cod.  Clarend.,”  tom.  49. 

88  A great  malady—  This  passage  is  translated  by  Colgan  as  follows  : 

“A.D.  1011. — Ardmacha  a festo  omnium  Sanctorum  usque  ad  initium  Mali,  magna  mor- 
talitate  infestatur  ; qua  Kennfailadius,  de  Saballo,  Episcopus,  Anachoreta  et  Peregri- 
nus  ; Maelbrigidus  Macangobhann,  Scholasticus,  sen  Lector  Ardmachanus  ; Scolagius, 
fllius  Clercheni,  nobilis  Praebyter  Ardmachanus,  et  alii  innumeri  Seniores  et  studiosi 
Ardmachani  interierunt.”— “ Trias  Thaum  p.  298. 


64 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


until  he  arrived  at  Magh-Cedne; 89  he  carried  off  a great  prey 
of  cows,  and  returned  safe  to  his  house.  An  army  was  led 
by  Flaithbheartach,  son  of  Muircheartach,  a second  time  into 
Cinel-Conaill,  until  he  reached  Druim-Cliabh  and  Traclit-Eothaile,90 
where  USTiall,  son  of  Gillaphadraig,  son  of  Fearghal,  was  slain,  and 
Maelruanaidh  Ua  Maeldoraidh  was  defeated;  but  no  [other]  one 
was  lost  there.  An  army  was  led  in  their  absence  by  Maelseach- 
lainn  into  Tir-Eoghain,  as  far  as  Magh-da-ghabhal,91  which  they 
burned ; they  preyed  as  far  as  Tealach-Oog,92  and,  having  obtained 
spoils,  they  returned  back  to  his  house.  An  army  was  after- 
wards led  by  Flaithbheartach  till  he  arrived  at  Ard-Uladh,93 
so  that  the  whole  of  the  Ardes  was  plundered  by  him  ; and  he 
bore  off  from  thence  spoils  the  most  numerous  that  a king 
had  ever  borne,  both  prisoners  and  cattle  without  number. 
A battle  was  gained  over  Mall,  son  of  Dubhtuinne — i. e. , the  battle 
of  the  Mullachs 94 — by  Mai,  son  of  Eochaidh,  son  of  Ardghar,  where 
many  were  slain,  together  with  Muircheartach,  son  of  Artan, 
Tanist  of  Ui-Eathach ; and  he  afterwards  deposed  Mall,  son  of 
Dubhthuinne.  Ailell,  son  of  Gebhennach,  royal  heir  of  Ui-Maine, 

89  Magh-Cedne. — NowMoy,  a plain  situated  between  the  rivers  Erne  and  Drowes,  in  the 
south  of  the  county  of  Donegal.  See  note  m,  under  a.d.  1301. 

90  Tracht-Eothaile — i.e.,  the  strand  of  Eothaile,  now  Trawohelly,  a great  strand  near 
Ballysadare,  in  the  county  of  Sligo. 

91  Magh-da-ghabhal.—  Plain  of  the  Two  Forks.  Not  identified. 

92  Tealach-Oog. — Now  Tullaghoge,  in  the  barony  of  Dungannon  and  eounty  of  Tyrone. 

93  Ard-Uladh. — i.e.,  altitudo  Ultorum,  now  the  Ardes,  in  the  east  of  the  county  of 
Down. 

94  The  Mullachs—i.e.,  the  summits.  There  are  many  places  of  this  name,  but  nothing 
has  been  discovered  to  fix  the  site  of  this  battle. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  record  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“A.D.  1011.— A certain  disease  that  year  at  Ardmach,  whereof  died  many.  Maelbride 
Macangovan,  Ferleginn”  [Lector]  “of  Ardmach,  and  Scolai  mac  < learkean,  priest  of  the 
same,  died  thereof,  and  Cenfaela  of  the  Savall,  i.  chosen  Scwle-friend.'’'  “An  army  by 
Flavertach  mac  Murtagh,  King  of  Ailech,  upon  Kindred-Con  ell,  untill  he  came  to  Macetne, 
from  whence  he  brought  a great  pray  of  cowes,  and  returned  saufe  again.  An  army  by 
him  againe  to  the  Conells  as  farr  as  Drumcliav  and  Tracht-Neothaile  (i.  shore  of  Neo- 
thailc),  and  kiUed  ” [Gil]  “Patrick  mac  Fergaile,  sonn  of  Nell,  and  broke  of  Maelruanai 
O'Maeldorai,  but  none  killed.  An  army  behind  them  ” [i.e.,  in  their  absence]  “ into  Tyrone 
by  Maelsechlainn,  and  to  Madagaval,  and  burnt  the  same  ; prayed  Tullanoog  and  carried 
them  ” [the  preyes]  “ away.  An  army  yet  by  Flavertach  into  Ard-Ula,  and  spoyled  and 
gott  the  greatest  bootyes  that  ever  king  had  there,  both  men  and  chattle,  that  cannot  be 
numbered.  Forces  by  Bryan  into  Magh-Murthevin;  that  he  gave  fredom  to  Patrick’s 
churches  by  that  voyage.  A discomfiture  of  Nell  mac  Duvthuinne  by  Nell  mac  Eochaa, 
where  Murtagh  mac  Artan,  heyre  of  Onehachs,  was  killed,  and  mac  Eochaa  raigned  after. 
Caenchorack  O’Scanlan,  Airchinnech  of  Daivinis,”  [and]  “Macklonan,  Airchinnech  of 
Roscree,  mxrrVui  sunt.  Aengus,  Airchinnech  of  Slane,  killed  by  the  heyre  of  Duva,”  [i.e., 
was  killed  by  the  Airchinnech  of  Dowth].  Crinan  mac  Gormlaa,  King  of  the  Conells, 
killed  [by  Cucuailgne].— “ Cod.  Clarend.,”  tom.  49. 


Michael  O'Clery,  O.S.F.  65 

died.  Crinan,  son  of  Gormladh,  lord  of  Conaille,  was  killed  by 
Cucuailgne. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1012.  The  twelfth  year  of  Brian.  Mac- 
Maine,  son  of  Cosgrach,  comharba  of  Cill-Dalua96  [died].  The 
Prior  of  Saighir  was  killed.  Cian  Ua  Geargain,  successor  of  Cain- 
ueach,  [and]  Dearbhail,  daughter  of  Conglialach,  son  of  Maelmi- 
thigli,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Ireland,  died.  Domhnall 

— i.e.y  the  Cat — royal  heir  of  Connaught,  was  killed  by  Mael- 
ruanaidh  Ua  Maeldoraidh,  and  Magh-Aei  was  totally  plundered 
and  burned  by  him,  after  defeating  and  slaughtering  the  Connaught- 
men.  A great  depredation  was  committed  by  Ualgharg  Ua 
Ciardha,  lord  of  Cairbre,  and  the  son  of  Niall  O’Ruairc,  and  the 
men  of  Feathblia  in  Gaileanga  ; but  a few  good  men  of  the  house- 
hold of  Maelseaclilainn  overtook  them,  and  being  at  the  time  in- 
toxicated after  drinking,  they  [imprudently]  gave  them  battle 
through  pride.  There  were  slain  in  it  Donnchadh,  son  of  Mael- 
seachlainn  ; Dubhtaichligh  Ua  Maelchallann,96  lord  of  Dealbhna 
Beag; 97  Donnchadh,  son  of  Donnchadh  Finn,  royal  heir  of  Team- 
hair;  Cearnachan,  son  of  Flann,  lord  of  Luighne ; Seanan  Ua 
Leochain,  lord  of  Gaileanga ; and  many  others  along  with  them. 
Maelseaclilainn  afterwards  overtook  them  [with  his  forces],  and  the 
spoils  were  left  behind  to  him  ; and  Ualgharg  Ua  Ciardha,  lord  of 
Cairbre,  and  many  others  besides  them,  were  slain.  Great  forces 
were  led  by  Maelseaclilainn  into  the  territory  of  the  foreigners,  and 
he  burned  the  country  as  far  as  Edar  ; 98  but  Sitric  and  Maclmordha 
overtook  one  of  his  preying  parties,  and  slew  two  hundred  of  them, 
together  with  Flann,  son  of  Maelseaclilainn,  the  son  of  Korean,  son 
of  Echthegern,  lord  of  Cinel-Meacliair,  and  numbers  of  others. 
This  was  the  defeat  of  Draighnen,"  in  commemoration  of  which 
this  quatrain  was  composed  : 


95  Cill-Dalua — i.e .,  the  Church  of  St.  Lua,  Dalua,  or  Molua,  who  erected  a church  here 
about  the  beginning  of  the  sixth  century ; now  anglice  Killaloe,  a well-known  town,  the 
head  of  an  ancient  bishop’s  see,  situated  on  the  western  bank  of  the  river  Shannon,  in 
the  southeast  of  the  county  of  Clare. 

96  O' Maelchallann.—  Now  anglicd  Mulholland,  without  the  prefix  O.  There  were  several 
distinct  famines  of  this  name  in  Ireland.— See  Reeves’s  “ Ecclesiastical  Antiquities  of 
Down  and  Connor,”  etc.,  pp.  370  to  375. 

97  Dealbhna-Beag.— Now  the  barony  of  Fore,  or  Demifore,  in  the  northwest  of  the  county 
of  Meath. 

98  Edar. — Otherwise  called  Beann-Edair,  which  is  still  known  throughout  Ireland  as  the 
Irish  name  of  the  Bill  of  Howth,  in  the  county  of  Dublin. 

99  Draighnen. — Now  Drinan,  near  Kinsaly,  in  the  county  of  Dublin. 


66 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


‘ ‘ Not  well  on  Monday  on  the  expedition 
Did  the  Meath  men  go  to  overrun. 

The  foreigners,  it  was  heard,  were  joyful 
Of  the  journey  at  the  Draighnen.” 

An  army  was  led  by  Flaithbheartach,  lord  of  Aileach,  to 
Maighen-Attaed,100  by  the  son  of  Ceanannus,  and  Maelseachlainn 
left  the  hill  [undisputed]  to  him.  Gillamochonna,  son  of  Foghar- 
tach,  lord  of  South  Breagha,  plunderer  of  the  foreigners  and 
flood  of  the  glory  of  the  East  of  Ireland,  died.  A depredation 
by  Murchadh,  son  of  Brian,  in  Leinster;  he  plundered  the 
country  as  far  as  Gleann-da-locha  and  Cill-Maighneann,101  and 
burned  the  whole  country  and  carried  off  great  spoils  and  innu- 
merable prisoners.  A great  fleet  of  the  foreigners  arrived  in  Mun- 
ster, so  that  they  burned  Oorcach ; but  God  immediately  took  ven- 
geance on  them  for  that  deed,  for  Amhlaeibh,  son  of  Sitric — i.e., 
the  son  of  the  lord  of  the  foreigners — and  Mathghamhain,  son  of 
Dubhgliall,  and  many  others,  were  slain  by  Cathal,  son  of  Domhnall, 
son  of  Dubhdabhoireann.  Muircheartach,  son  of  Aedh  O’Neill,  was 
slain  by  the  Dal-Riada,  with  a number  of  others  along  with  him. 
A great  war  between  the  foreigners  and  the  Gaeidhil.  An  army 
was  led  by  Brian  to  Ath-an-chairthinn,102  and  he  there  encamped  and 
laid  siege  to  the  foreigners  for  three  months.  Many  fortresses  were 
• erected  by  Brian,  namely,  Cathair-Cinn-coradh,103  Inis-Gaill-duibh,104 
and  Inis-Locha-Saighleann  [etc.]  The  Leinstermen  and  foreigners 
were  at  war  with  Brian ; and  Brian  encamped  at  Sliabh  Mairge  to 
defend  Munster,  and  Leinster  was  plundered  by  him  as  far  as  Ath- 
cliath.  A great  depredation  upon  the  Conailli  by  Maelseachlainn, 
in  revenge  of  the  profanation  of  the  Finnfaidheach  and  of  the 
breaking  of  Patrick’s  crosier  by  the  Conailli — i.e.,  by  the  sons  of 
Cucuailgne. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1013  \recte  1014].  Ronan,  successor  of 
Fechin  ; Flaithbheartach,  son  of  Domhnall — i.e.,  of  the  Clann-Col- 
main — successor  of  Ciaran  and  Finnen ; and  Conn  Ua  Duigraidh, 

100  Maighm-Attaed—i.e.,  Attaedh’s  little  Plain.  This  would  be  anglicized  Moynatty,  but 
the  name  is  obsolete. 

101  CiU  Maighneann. — Now  Kilmainham,  near  Dublin. 

102  Ath-an-chairthinn — i e.,  Ford  of  the  Rock.  Situation  unknown. 

103  Cathair-Cinn-coradh— i.e.,  the  Stone  Fort  of  Kincora  at  Killaloe. 

104  Inis-Gaill-duibh— i.e.,  the  Island  of  the  Black  Foreigner.  It  is  stated  in  the  Dublin 
copy  of  the  Annals  of  Innisf alien,  at  the  year  1016,  that  this  was  the  name  of  an  island 
in  the  Shannon,  but  it  has  not  been  yet  identified.  It  was  probably  another  name  for  th* 
King  s Island  at  Limerick. 


Michael  O'  Clery,  O.S.F. 


6 7 


successor  of  Caeimhghin,  died.  Cairbre  Fial,105  son  of  Cathal,  ancho- 
rite of  Grleann-da-locha,  [and]  Kaemhan  Ua  Seinchinn,  died;  these 
were  both  anchorites.  Dunlang,  son  of  Tuathal,  King  of  Leinster, 
died.  Cairbre,  son  of  Cleirchen,106  lord  of  Ui  Fidhgeinte,  was  treach- 
erously slain  by  Maelcoluim  Caenraigheach.107  A battle  between  the 
Ui-Eathach108  themselves — i.e.,  between  Cian,  son  of  Maelmhuaidh,109 
and  Domhnall,  son  of  Dubh-da-bhoireann 110 — in  which  were  slain 
Cian,  Cathal,  and  Roghallaeh,  three  sons  of  Maelmhuaidh,  with  a 
great  slaughter  along  with  them.  An  army  was  led  by  Donnchadh, 
son  of  Brian,  to  the  South  of  Ireland ; and  he  slew  Cathal,  son  of 
Domhnall,  and  carried  off  hostages  from  Domhnall.  An  army  was 
led  by  the  foreigners  and  Leins termen  into  Meath,  and  afterwards 
into  Breagha ; and  they  plundered  Tearmonn-Fichine,111  and 
carried  off  many  captives  and  countless  cattle.  An  army  was 
led  by  Brian,  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  son  of  Lorcan,  King  of 
Ireland,  and  by  Maelseachlainn,  son  of  Domhnall,  King  of 
Teamhair,  to  Ath-cliatli.  The  foreigners  of  the  West  of  Europe 
assembled  against  Brian  and  Maelseachlainn,  and  they  took  with 
them  ten  hundred  men  with  coats  of  mail.  A spirited,  fierce,  vio- 
lent, vengeful,  and  furious  battle  was  fought  between  them,  the 
likeness  of  which  was  not  to  be  found  in  that  time,  at  Cluaintarbh,112 
on  the  Friday  before  Easter  precisely.  In  this  battle  were  slain 


106  Cairbre  Fial— i.e.,  Carbry  the  Hospitable  or  Munificent. 

106  Cleirchen.— He  was  the  ancestor  of  the  family  of  O’ Cleirchen,  now  pronounced  in 
Irish  O’Cleireachain,  and  anglicized  < leary  and  Clarke,  a name  still  extant  in  the  county 
of  Limerick. 

107  Maelcoluim  Caenraigheach— i.e.,  Malcolm  of  Kenry,  now  a barony  in  the  north  of  the 
county  of  Limerick. 

108  The  Ui  Eathach.— This  was  the  tribe  name  of  the  O’Mahonys  and  O’Donohoes  of 
South  Munster. 

108  Cian , son  of  Maelmhuaidh— i.e.,  Kean,  son  of  Molloy.  He  is  the  ancestor  of  the  family 
of  O’Mahony. 

110  Domhnall,  son  of  Dubh-da-bhoireann — i.e.,  Donnell,  or  Daniel,  son  of  Duv-Davoran.  He 
wan  the  ancestor  of  the  O’Donohoes.  Both  these  chieftains  fought  at  the  battle  of  Clon- 
tarf,  and  the  Four  Masters  have  therefore  misplaced  this  entry. 

111  Tearmonn  Feichine—i.e.,  asylum  Sancti  Fechini,  the  Termon,  or  Sanctuary,  of  St. 
Feichin,  now  Termonfeckin,  in  the  barony  of  Ferard  and  county  of  Louth. — See  Ussher’s 
“ Primordia,”  p.  966  ; and  Archdall’s  “Monas.  Hib.,”  p.  491. 

1J2  Cluain-tarbh  —i.e.,  the  Plain,  Lawn,  or  Meadows  of  the  Bulls,  nowClontarf,  near  the 
city  of  Dublin.  In  Dr.  O’Conor’s  edition  this  is  headed,  “ Cath  Coradh  Cluana  tarbh,” 
which  is  translated  “ Proelium  Heroicum  Cluantarbhia,"  but  it  simply  means  “ Battle  of  the 
Fishing  Weir  of  Cluain-tarbh.”  The  Danes  were  better  armed  in  this  battle  than  the 
Irish,  for  they  had  one  thousand  men  dressed  in  armor  from  head  to  foot.  In  a dialogue 
between  the  Banshee  Oeibhill,  or  Oeibhinn,  of  Craglea,  and  the  hero,  Kineth  O’Hartagan, 
tho  former  is  represented  as  advising  the  latter  to  shun  the  battle,  as  the  Gaeidhii  were 
dressed  only  in  satin  shirts,  while  the  Danes  were  in  one  mass  of  iron. 


68  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Brian,  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  monarch  of  Ireland,  who  was  the  Augus- 
tus of  all  the  West  of  Europe,  in  the  eighty-eighth  year  of  his  age  ;113 
Murchadh,  son  of  Brian,  heir  apparent  to  the  sovereignty  of  Ire- 
land, in  the  sixty -third  114  year  of  his  age;  Conaing,  son  of  Donncuan, 
the  son  of  Brian’s  brother;  Toirdhealbhach,  son  of  Murchadh,115  son 
of  Brian ; Mothla,  son  of  Domhnall,  son  of  Eaelan,116  lord  of  the  Deisi- 
Mumhan  ; Eocha,  son  of  Dunadhach — i.e.,  chief  of  Clann-Scann- 
lain ; Nial  Ua  Cuinn  ; 117  Cuduiligh,  son  of  Ceinneidigh,  the  three 
companions118  of  Brian;  Tadhg  Ua  Ceallaigh,119  lord  of  Ui-Maine; 
Maelruanaidh  na  Paidre  Ua  h Eidhin, 120  lord  of  Aidhne  ; Geibhean- 


113  In  the  eighty -eighth  year  of  his  age.— This  is  also  stated  to  have  been  Brian's  age  in  the 
Annals  of  Clonmacnoise,  as  well  as  the  Annals  of  Innisfallen,  and  other  accounts  of  this 
battle.  But  the  Annals  of  Ulster  state  that  Brian  was  born  in  the  year  941,  according  to 
which  he  was  in  the  seventy-third  year  of  his  age  when  he  was  slain,  and  this  seems 
correct.— See  Colgan’s  “ Acta  Sanctorum,”  p.  106,  note  3 ; and  “ Ogygia,”  p.  435. 

114  Sixty-third— This  should  probably  be  fifty- third,  or,  perhaps,  forty-third.  The  eldest 
son  of  Murchadh  was  fifteen  years  old  at  this  time,  according  to  the  Annals  of  Clonmac- 
noise. This  looks  very  like  the  truth  ; the  grandson  was  fifteen,  the  eldest  son  forty- 
three,  and  Brian  himself  seventy-three 

u5  Toirdhealbhach , son  of  Murchadh. — “ Terrence,  the  king’s  grandchild,  then  but  of  the 
age  of  15  years,  was  found  drouned  neer  the  fishing  weare  of  Clontarfe,  with  both  his 
hands  fast  bound  in  the  hair  of  a Dane’s  head,  whom  he  pursued  to  the  sea  at  the  time 
of  the  flight  of  the  Danes.”— Ann.  Cion. 

na  Faelan.— He  was  the  progenitor  after  whom  the  O’Faelains,  or  O’Phelans,  of  the  De- 
sies,  took  their  hereditary  surname.  This  Mothla  was  the  first  who  was  called  O’Faelain, 

i.e .,  Nepos  Foilani. 

117  Mall  Ua  Cuinn— Tie  is  the  ancestor  of  the  O’Quins  of  Muintir-Iffernain,  a distin- 
guished sept  of  the  Dal-g-Cais,  who  were  originally  seated  at  Inchiquin  and  Corofin,  in 
the  county  of  Clare.  The  Earl  of  Dunraven  is  the  p esent  head  of  this  family. 

us  Three  Companions. — In  Mageoghegan’s  translation  of  the  Annals  of  Clonmacnoise, 
these  are  called  “three  noblemen  of  the  king’s  bed-chamber.”  In  the  translation  of  the 
Dublin  copy  of  the  Annals  of  Innisfallen  they  are  called  “Brian’s  three  companions  or 
aides-de-camp.” 

119  Tadhg  O'  CeaUaig — i.e.,  Teige,  Thaddaeus,  or  Timothy  O' Kelly.  From  him  all  the 
septs  of  the  O’Kellys  of  Hy-Many  are  descended.  According  to  a wild  tradition  among 
the  O’Kellys  of  this  race,  after  the  fall  of  their  ancestor,  Teige  Mor,  in  the  battle  of 
Clontarf,  a certain  animal  like  a dog  (ever  since  used  in  the  crest  of  the  O’Kellys  of  Hy- 
Many)  issued  from  the  sea  to  protect  the  body  from  the  Danes,  and  remained  guarding  it 
till  it  was  carried  away  by  the  [Ji-Maine.— See  “ Tribes  and  Customs  of  Hy-Many,-”  p.  99. 

']  here  is  a very  curious  poem  relating  to  this  chieftain  in  a fragment  of  the  Book  of  Hy- 
Many,  now  preserved  in  a manuscript  in  the  British  Museum,  Egerton,  90.  It  gives  a list 
of  the  sub-chiefs  of  Hy-Many  who  were  contemporary  with  Tadhg  Mor  O’Ceallaigh,  who 
is  therein  stated  to  have  been  tha  principal  hero  in  the  battle  next  after  Brian,  and  it 
adds  that  he  did  more  to  break  down  the  power  of  the  Danes  than  Brian  himself.  Ac- 
cording to  the  tradition  in  the  country,  the  Connaughtmen  were  dreadfully  slaughtered 
in  this  battle,  and  very  few  of  the  O’Kellys  or  O’Heynes  survived  it. 

120  Maelruanaidh  na  Paidri  O'h  Eidhin— i.e.,  Mulrony  O’Heyne  of  the  Prayer.  He  was 
the  first  person  ever  called  O’Heidhin,  as  being  the  grandson  of  Eidhin,  the  progenitor 
of  the  family,  brother  Maelfabhaill,  from  whence  the  O’Heynes,  now  Heynes,  chiefs  of 
Hy-Fiachrach- Aidhne,  in  the  county  of  Galway,  are  descended.— See  “ Genealogies, 
etc.,  of  Hy-Fiachrach,”  p.  398. 


Michael  O'  C levy,  O.S.F. 


69 


nach,  son  of  Dubhagan, 121  lord  of  Eeara-Maighe ; Mac-Beatha, 122  son 
of  Muireaclhach-Claen,  lord  of  Ciarraighe-Luachra ; Domhnall,  son  of 
Diarmaid,123  lord  of  Corea- Bhaiscinn  ; Scannlan,  son  of  Cathal,124  lord 
of  Eoghanacht-Loclia  Lein;  and  Domhnall,  son  of  Eimhin,125  son  of 
Cainneach,  great  steward  of  Mair  in  Alba.  The  forces  were  after- 
wards routed  by  dint  of  battling,  bravery,  and  striking  by  Mael- 
seachlainn,126  from  Tulcainn  127  to  Ath-cliath,  against  the  foreigners 

121  Dubhagan. — He  was  descended  from  the  Druid  Mogh  Roth,  and  from  Cuanna  Mac 
Gail  chine,  commonly  called  Laech  Liathmhuine.  From  this  Dubhagan  descends  the  family 
of  the  Ui  Dubhagain,  now  Duggan,  formerly  chiefs  of  Fermoy,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  of 
whom  the  principal  branch  is  now  represented  by  the  Cronins  of  Park,  near  Killarney,  in 
the  county  of  Kerry,  who  are  paternally  descended  from  the  O'Dubhagains  of  Fermoy. 

122  Mac  Beatha,  son  of  Muireadhach  Claen. — He  was  evidently  the  ancestor  of  O’Conor 
Kerry,  though  in  the  pedigrees  the  only  Mac  Beatha  to  be  found  is  made  Mac  Beatha,  son  of 
Conchobhar,  but  it  should  clearly  be  Mac  Beatha,  son  of  Muireadhach  Claen,  son  of  Con- 
chobhar,  the  progenitor  from  whom  the  O’Conors  Kerry  derive  their  hereditary  surname. 

Daniel  O’Connell  O’Connor  Kerry  of  the  Austrian  service  is  one  of  the  representatives 
of  this  family.  The  following  are  also  of  the  O’Connor  Kerry  sept : Daniel  Connor,  Esq., 
of  Manche,  in  the  county  of  Cork  ; Feargus  O’Connor,  Esq.,  M.P.,  who  is  son  of  the  late 
Roger  O’Connor  Kierrie,  Esq.,  of  Dangan  Castle,  author  of  the  “Chronicles  of  Eri”; 
Daniel  Conner,  Esq.,  of  Ballybriton  ; and  William  Conner,  Esq.,  of  Mitchels,  Bandon, 
county  of  Cork  ; also  William  Conner,  Esq.,  late  of  Inch,  near  Athy,  in  the  Queen's 
County,  author  of  “ The  True  Political  Economy  of  Ireland,”  etc.,  who  is  the  son  of  the 
celebrated  Arthur  Condorcet  O’Connor,  General  of  Division  in  France,  now  living,  in  the 
eighty- sixth  year  of  his  age;  who  isihe  son  of  Roger  Conner,  Esq  , of  Connerville ; son  of 
William  Conner,  Esq.,  of  Connerville;  son  of  Mr.  Daniel  Connor,  of  Swithin’s  Alley,  Tem- 
ple Bar,  London,  merchant,  and  afterwards  of  Bandon,  in  the  county  of  Cork;  son  of  Mr. 
Cornelius  Conner,  of  Cork,  whose  will  is  dated  1719  ; son  of  Daniel  Conner  ; who  was  the 
relative  of  O’Connor  Kerry.  This  Cork  branch  descends  from  Philip  Conner,  merchant, 
of  London,  to  whom  his  relative,  John  O’Connor  Kerry,  conveyed  Asdee  by  deed,  dated 
August,  1598. 

123  Domhnall , son  of  Diarmaid. — This  Domhnall  was  the  progenitor  of  the  family  of 
O'Domhnaill,  O’Donnell,  of  East  Corea  Bhaiscinn,  now  the  barony  of  Clonderalaw,  in  the 
present  county  of  Clare.  According  to  Dual  mac  Firbis’s  genealogical  work,  a Bishop 
Conor  O’Donnell,  of  Raphoe,  was  the  nineteenth  in  descent  from  this  DomhnaH.  The 
editor  does  not  know  of  any  member  of  this  family.  The  O’Donnels  of  Limerick  and 
Tipperary,  of  whom  Colonel  Sir  Charles  O’Donnel  is  the  present  head,  are  descended  from 
Shane  Luirg,  one  of  the  sons  of  Turlough  of  the  Wine  O’Donnell,  Prince  of  Tirconnell  in 
the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

124  Scannlan , son  of  Catlial. — He  was  the  ancestor  of  the  family  of  O’Cearbhaill,  who  had 
been  lords  or  chieftains  of  Eoghanacht  Locha-Lein  before  the  O’Donohoes,  a branch  of 
the  Ui-Eathach  Munnhan,  dispossessed  them. 

125  Domhnall,  son  of  Eimhin.—  He  was  chief  of  the  Eoghanachts  of  Magh  Geirrginn,  or 
Marr,  in  Scotland,  and  descended  from  Maine  Leamhna  (the  brother  of  Cairbre  Luaehra, 
ancestor  of  the  O’Moriartys  of  Kerry),  son  of  Core,  son  of  Lughaidh,  son  of  Oilioll 
Flannbeg,  son  of  Fiacha  Muilleathan,  son  of  Eoghan  Mor,  son  of  Oilioll  Olum,  King  of 
Munster,  and  common  ancestor  of  King  Brian  and  of  this  Domhnall  of  Marr,  who  as- 
sisted him  against  the  common  enemy.— See  O’S  laherty’s  “ Ogygia,”  part  iii  c.  81. 

126  By  Maelseachlainn  — This  fact  is  suppressed  in  all  the  Munster  accounts  of  this 
action,  which  state  that  Maelseachlainn  did  not  take  any  part  in  the  battle.  The  Mun- 
ster writers,  and  among  others  Keating,  introduce  Maelseachlainn  as  giving  a ludicrous 
account  of  the  terrors  of  the  battle,  in  which  he  is  made  to  say  that  he  did  not  join  either 
side,  being  paralyzed  with  fear  by  the  horrific  scenes  of  slaughter  passing  before  his  eyes. 

127  Tulcainn.— Now  the  Tolka,  a small  river  which  flows  through  the  village  of  Finglas, 


7 o 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


and  the  Leinstermen ; and  there  fell  Maelmordha,128  son  of  Murchadh, 
son  of  Finn,  King  of  Leinster ; the  son  of  Brogarblian,  son  of  Con- 
chobhar,129  Tanist  of  Ui-Failghe ; and  Tuathal,  son  of  Ugaire,130  royal 
heir  of  Leinster ; and  a countless  slaughter  of  the  Leinstermen 
along  with  them.  There  were  also  slain  Dubhghall,  son  of  Amh- 
laeibh,  and  Gillaciarain,  son  of  Gluniairn,  two  Tanists  of  the  foreign- 
ers ; Sechfrith,  son  of  Loder,  Earl  of  Innsih  Ore;131  Brodar,  chief  of 
the  Danes  of  Denmark,  who  was  the  person  that  slew  Brian.  The 
ten  hundred  in  armor  132  were  cut  to  pieces,  and  at  the  least  three 
thousand  of  the  foreigners  were  there  slain.  It  was  of  the  death  of 
Brian  and  of  this  battle  the  [following]  quatrain  was  composed  * 

“ Thirteen  years,  one  thousand  complete, 

Since  Christ  was  born,  not  long  since  the  date, 

Of  prosperous  years — accurate  the  enumeration — 

Until  the  foreigners  were  slaughtered  together  with  Brian.” 

Maelmuire,  son  of  Eochaidh,  successor  of  Patrick,  proceeded  with 


and,  passing  under  Ballybough  Bridge  and  Annesley  Bridge,  unites  with  the  sea  near 
Clontarf. 

128  ATaelinordha. — He  was  not  the  ancestor  of  the  Mac  Morroughs,  or  Kafanaghs,  as 
generally  supposed,  but  was  the  father  of  Bran,  the  progenitor  after  whom  the  Ui  Broin, 
or  O’Byrnes,  of  Leinster  have  taken  their  hereditary  surname. 

129  The  son  of  Brogarbhan,  son  of  Conchobhar. — This  should  be  Brogarbhan,  son  of  Con- 
ohobhar.  He  is  the  ancestor  of  O’Conor  Faly. 

130  Tuathal , son  of  TTgaire.— This  is  a mistake,  because  Tuathal,  son  of  Ugaire,  died  in 
956.  It  should  be,  as  in  the  Annals  of  Innisfallen,  mac  Tuathail— i.e.,  “the  son  Tuthal,  son 
of  Ugaire,”  or  “ Dunlaing,  son  of  Tuathal,  son  of  Ugaire.”  This  Tuathal  was  the  progeni- 
tor after  whom  the  Ui-Tuathail  or  O’Tooles,  of  Ui-Muireadhaigh,  Ui  Mail,  and  Feara-Cua- 
lann,  in  Leinster,  took  their  hereditary  surname. 

131  Insi-h  Ore— i.e.,  the  Orcades,  or  Orkney  Islands,  on  the  north  of  Scotland. 

132  The  ten  hundred  in  amwr.-  In  the  Niala  Saga,  published  in  Johnston’s  “Ant.  Celto- 
Scand,”  a Norse  prince  is  introduced  as  asking,  some  time  after  this  battle,  what  had  be- 
come of  his  men,  and  the  answer  was  that  “they  were  all  killed.” 

This  seems  to  allude  to  the  division  in  coats  of  mail,  and  is  sufficient  to  prove  that  the 
Irish  had  gained  a real  and  great  victory.  According  to  the  Cath-Chluana-tarbh,  and 
the  account  of  the  battle  inserted  in  the  Dublin  copy  of  the  Annals  of  Innisfallen,  thirteen 
thousand  Danes  and  three  thousand  Leinstermen  were  slain  ; but  that  this  is  an  exagge- 
ration of  modern  popular  writers  will  appear  from  the  authentic  Irish  annals. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  state  that  seven  thousand  of  the  Danes  perished  by  field  and 
flood.  The  Annals  of  Boyle,  which  are  very  ancient,  make  the  number  of  Danes  slain  the 
one  thousand  who  were  dressed  in  coats  of  mail  and  three  thousand  others.  The  pro- 
bability is,  therefore,  that  the  Annals  of  Ulster  include  the  Leinstermen  in  their  sum 
total  of  the  slain  on  the  Danish  side,  and  in  this  sense  there  is  no  discrepancy  between 
them  and  the  Annals  of  Boyle,  which  count  the  loss  of  the  Danes  only.  In  the  Chronicle 
of  Ademar,  monk  of  St.  Eparchius  of  Angouleme,  it  is  stated  that  this  battle  lasted  for 
three  days,  that  all  the  Norsemen  were  killed,  and  that  crowds  of  their  women  in  despair 
threw  themselves  into  the  sea  ; but  the  Irish  accounts  agree  that  it  lasted  only  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset  on  Good  Friday. 


Michael  O'Clery , O.S.F. 


71 


the  seniors  and  relics  to  Sord-Clioluim-Chille ; 133  and  they  carried 
from  thence  the  body  of  Brian,  King  of  Ireland,  and  the  body  of 
Murchadh,  his  son,  and  the  head  of  Conaing,  and  the  head  of 
Mothla.  Maelmuire  and  his  clergy  waked  the  bodies  with  great 

133  Sord-Choluim-ChUle  — Now  Swords,  in  the  county  of  Dublin.  Ware  says  that,  accord- 
ing to  some,  the  bodies  of  Brian  and  his  son,  Murchadh,  as  well  as  those  of  O’Kelly, 
Doulan  O’Hartegan,  and  Gilla-Barred,  were  buried  at  Kilmainham,  a mile  from  Dublin, 
near  the  old  stone  cross. — See  Dublin  P.  Journal,  vol.  i.  p.  68. 

The  most  circumstantial  account  of  the  battle  of  Clontarf  accessible  to  the  editor  is 
that  given  in  the  “ Cath  Chluanatarbh,”  from  which,  and  from  other  romantic  accounts 
of  this  great  battle,  a copious  description  has  been  given  in  the  Dublin  copy  of  the  Annals 
of  Innisfallen,  compiled  by  Dr.  O Brien  and  John  Conry  ; but  it  has  been  too  much  am- 
plified and  modernized  to  be  received  as  an  authority.  It  also  gives  the  names  of  chiefs 
as  fighting  on  the  side  of  Brian,  who  were  not  in  the  battle,  as  Tadhg  O’Conor,  son  of 
C'athal,King  of  Connaught;  Maguire,  Prince  of  Fermanagh,  etc.  These  falsifications,  so 
unworthy  of  Dr.  O’  Brien,  have  been  given  by  Mr.  Moore  as  true  history,  which  very  much 
disfigures  his  otherwise  excellent  account  of  this  important  event.  It  is  stated  in  the 
Annals  of  Clonmacnoise  that  “ the  O’Neals  forsooke  King  Brian  in  this  battle,  and  so  did 
all  Connaught,  except”  [Hugh,  the  son  of]  “Ferall  O’Rourke  and  Teige  O’Kelly.  The 
Leinstermen  did  not  only  forsake  him,  but  were  the  first  that  opposed  themselves  against 
him  of  the  Danes’  side,  only  O’Morrey  ” [O’Mordha  or  O’More]  “ and  O’Nollan  excepted.” 
The  following  chiefs  are  mentioned  in  tho  account  of  the  battle  of  Clontarf  in  the  Dub- 
lin copy  of  the  Annals  of  Innisfallen  as  fighting  in  the  second  division  of  Brian’s  army, 
viz. : Cian,  son  of  Maelmuaidh,  son  of  Bran  (ancestor  of  O’Mahoney),  and  Domhnall, 
son  of  Dubhdabhoireann  (ancestor  of  O’Donohoe),  who  took  the  chief  command  of  the 
forces  of  the  race  Eoghan  Mor  ; Mothla,  son  of  Faelan,  King  of  the  Desies  ; Muir- 
cheartach,  son  of  Amnchadh,  chief  of  the  Ui-Liathain ; Scannlan,  son  of  Cathal,  chief 
of  Loch-Lein  ; Loingseach,  son  of  Lunlaing,  chief  of  Ui-Conaiil  Gabhra  ; Cathal,  son  of 
Donnabhan,  chief  of  Cairbre  Aebhdha  ; Mac  Beatha,  son  of  Muireadhach,  chief  of  Ciar- 
raigh-Laiachra;  Geibheannach,  son  of  Dubhagan,  chief  of  Feara-Maighe-Feine  ; O’Cearb- 
haill,  King  of  Eile;  another  O’Cearbhaill,  King  of  Oirghialla,  and  MagUidhir,  King  of 
Feara-Manach.  This  account  omits  some  curious  legendary  touches  respecting  Oebhinn 
(now  Aoibhill)  of  Craigliath  (Craglea,  near  Killaloe),  theLeanan  Sidhe,  or  familiar  sprite, 
of  Dal-g  Cais,  which  are  given  in  the  romantic  story  called  “ Cath-Chluanatarbh,”  as  well 
as  in  some  Munster  copies  of  the  Annals  of  Innisfallen,  and  in  the  Annals  of  Kilronan, 
and  also  in  some  ancient  accounts  of  the  battle  in  various  manuscripts  in  the  library  of 
Trinity  College,  Dublin.  It  is  said  that  this  banshee  enveloped  in  a magical  cloud  Dun- 
iaing  O’Hartagain  (a  chief  hero  attendant  on  Murchadh,  Brian’s  eldest  son),  to  prevent 
him  from  joining  the  battle.  But  O’Hartagain,  nevertheless,  made  his  way  to  Murchadh, 
who,  on  reproaching  him  for  his  delay,  was  informed  that  Oebhinn  was  the  cause. 
Whereupon  O’Hartagain  conducted  Murchadh  to  wheue  she  was,  and  a conversation 
ensued  in  which  she  predicted  the  fall  of  Brian,  as  well  as  of  Murchadh,  O’Hartigain, 
and  other  chief  men  of  their  army  : 

“ Murchadh  shall  fall ; Brian  shall  fall  ; 

Ye  all  shall  fall  in  one  litter ; 

This  plain  shall  be  red  to-morrow  with  thy  proud  blood  I ” 

Mr.  Moore,  who  dwells  with  particular  interest  on  this  battle,  and  who  describes  it  well, 
notwithstanding  some  mistakes  into  which  he  has  been  led  by  Dr.  O’Conor’s  mistransla- 
tions, has  the  following  remarks  on  the  Irish  and  Norse  accounts  of  it  in  his  “ History 
of  Ireland  ” : “ It  would  seem  a reproach  to  the  bards  of  Brian’s  day  to  suppose  that  an 
event  so  proudly  national  as  his  victory,  so  full  of  appeals,  as  well  to  the  heart  as  to  the 
imagination,  should  have  been  suffered  to  pass  unsung.  And  yet,  though  some  poems  in 
the  native  language  are  still  extant,  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  an  ollamb,  or 
doctor,  attached  to  the  court  of  Brian,  and  describing  the  solitude  of  the  halls  of  Kin- 


72  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

honor  and  veneration,  and  they  were  interred  at  Ard-Macha  in  a 
new  tomb. 

A battle  between  the  two  sons  of  Brian — i.e.,  Donncliadh  and 
Tadhg.  Donnchadh  was  defeated,  and  Ruaidhri  Ua  Donnagain, 
lord  of  Aradh,  and  many  others  along  with  him,  fell  in  the  battle. 

cora  after  the  death  of  their  royal  master,  there  appears  to  be  in  none  of  these  ancient 
poems  an  allusion  to  the  inspiriting  theme  of  Clontarf.  By  the  bards  of  the  north, 
however,  that  field  of  death,  and  the  name  of  its  veteran  victor,  Brian,  were  not  so 
lightly  forgotten. 

“ Traditions  of  the  dreams  and  portentous  appearances  that  preceded  the  battle 
formed  one  of  the  mournful  themes  of  Scaldic  song  ; and  a Norse  ode  of  this  description 
which  has  been  made  familiar  to  English  readers  breathes,  both  in  its  feeling  and  ima- 
gery, all  that  gloomy  wildness  which  might  be  expected  from  an  imagination  darkened  by 
defeat.” — Vol.  ii.  pp.  128,  129.  This  battle  is  the  theme  of  an  Icelandic  poem  translated 
by  the  English  poet,  Gray,  “The  Fatal  Sisters.”— See  Johnston’s  “ Antiquitates  Celto- 
Scandicae,”  Hafn.,  1786. 

The  Annals  of  Ulster  give  the  following  events  under  this  year  : 

“ A.D.  1013  ” [ al . 1014]. — L‘IRc  est  annus  octavus  circuit  Dedmnovenalis  el  hie  est  582  annus  ab 
adventu  Sancti  Patricii  ad  baptisandos  Scotos.  St.  Gregorie’s  feast  at  Shrovetide,  and  the 
Sunday  next  after  Easter,  in  summer  this  yeare,  guod  non  auditum  estab  antiquis  tempori- 
bus.  An  army  by  Bryan,  mac  Cinnedy,  mic  Lorkan,  King  of  Ireland,  and  by  Maelsech- 
lainn  mac  Donell,  King  of  Tarach,  to  Dublin.  Lenster  great  and  small  gathered  before 
them,  together  with  the  Galls  of  Dublin,  and  so  many  of  the  Gentiles  of  Denmark,  and 
fought  a courageous  battle  between  them,  the  like  [of  which]  was  not  seene. 

“ Gentiles  and  Lenster  dispersed  first  altogether,  in  which  battle  fell  of  the  adverse 
part  of  the  Galls  ” [in  quo  bello  cecederunt  ex  adversa  caterva  Gallorum ],  “ Maelmoramac  Mur- 
cha,  King  of  Leinster  ; Donell  mac  Ferall”  [recte,  Donell  O’Ferall,  of  the  race  of  Finn- 
chadh  Mac  Garchon],  “ King  of  the  Fortuaths,  i.  outward  parts  of  Leinster;  and  of  the 
Galls  were  slaine  Duvgall  mac  Aulair,  Sinchrai  mac  Lodar,  Earle  of  Innsi  Hork  ; Gilky- 
aran  mac  Gluniarn,  heyre  of  Galls  ; Ofctir  D\iv;  Suartgar  ; Duncha  O’Herailv  ; Grisene, 
Luimni,  and  Aulaiv  mac  Lagmainn  ; and  Brodar,  who  killed  Bryan,  i.  cheife  of  the  Den- 
mark navy,  and  7,000  between  killing  and  drowning  ; and,  in  greveing  the  battle,  there 
were  lost  of  the  Irish,  Bryan  mac  Kennedy  (Archking  of  Ireland,  of  Galls  and  Welsh,  the 
Cesar  of  the  northwest  of  Europe  all)  ; and  his  sonn,  Murcha,  and  his  grandsonn,  Tir- 
lagh  mac  Murcha,  and  C’onaing,  mac  Duncuan,  mic  Cinedy,  heyre  of  Mounster  ; Mothla, 
mac  Donell,  mic  Faelain,  King  of  Dessyes,  in  Mounster;  Eochaa  mac  Dunaai,  Nell 
O’Cuinn,  and  ” [Cudniligh]  “ mac  Kinnedy,  Bryan’s  three  bedfellowes  ; the  two  Kings 
of  O’Mani,  O’Kelli,  and  Maelruanai  O’Heyn,  King  of  Aigne  ; and  Gevinach  O’Duvagan, 
King  of  Fermai ; Magveha  mac  Muireaiklyn,  King  of  Kerry  Luochra  ; Daniell  mac  Der- 
mada,  King  of  Corcabascin  ; Scannlan,  mac  Cahas,  King  of  Eoganacht  Lochlen  ; Donell 
mac  Evin,  mic  Cainni,  a great  murmor  in  Scotland  ’’  [ recte  Morrmoer  of  Marr,  in  Scotland], 
“ and  many  more  nobles.  Maelmuire  mac  Eocha,  Patrick’s  Coarb,  went  to  Lord  Colum 
Cill,  with  learned  men  and  reliques  in  his  company,  and  brought  from  thence  the  body  of 
Bryan,  the  body  of  Murcha,  his  sonn,  the  heads  of  Conaing  and  Mothla,  and  buried  them 
in  Ardmach,  in  a new  tombe.  Twelve  nights  were  the  people  and  reliques  ” [recti,  clergy] 
“ of  Patrick  at  the  wake  of  the  bodyes,  propter  honorem  Regis  peniti.  Dunlaing  mac  Tuo- 
hall,  King  of  Leinster,  died.  A battle  between  Kyan  mac  Maeilmuai  and  Donell  mac  Du- 
vaavorenn,  where  Kyan,  Cahell,  and  Ragallach,  three  sonns  of  Maelmuai,  were  killed. 
Teige  mac  Bryan  put  Dunch  mac  Bryan  to  flight,  where  Roary  O’Dcnnagan,  King  of  Ara, 
was  slaine.  An  army  by  O’Maeldorai  and  O’Royrk  into  Magh  Nali,  where  they  killed  Donell 
mac  Cahall,  and  spoyled  the  Magh  ” [i.e.,  theMaghery,  of  plain  of  Connaught],  “ andcaryed 
their  captives  ; licet  non  in  eaden  vice.  Dalriarai  dispersed  by  Ulster,  where  many  were 
killed.  Flavertach  mac  Donell,  Coarb  of  Kyaran  and  Finnen  ; and  Ronan,  Coarb  of  Fech- 
in  ; and  Conn  O’Digrai,  m Christo  dormierunt.  The  annals  of  this  year  are  many.”— “ Cod. 
Clarend.,-’  tom.  49. 


Michael  O Clery , O.S.F. 


73 


An  army  was  led  by  Ua  Maeldoraidh  and  O’Ruairc  into  Magli  Aei 
and  they  slew  Domhnall,  son  of  Cathal,  and  plundered  the  plain 
and  carried  off  the  hostages  of  Connaught. 

THIRD  SELECTION— VOL.  V.,  PP.  1825  TO  1843. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1585.  The  Earl  of  Kildare  died  in  England, 
namely,  Garrett,  the  son  of  Garrett,  son  of  Garrett,  son  of  Thomas, 
son  of  John  Cam.  This  earl  had  been  five  years  under  arrest,  kept 
from  his  patrimonial  inheritance,  until  he  died  at  this  time.  Henry 
his  son  was  appointed  his  successor  by  the  English  Council.  Henry 
was  then  permitted  to  go  westwards134  to  his  patrimonial  inheritance. 

Mac  William  Burke  (Richard,  the  son  of  Oliver,  son  of  John) 
died,  and  no  person  was  elected  his  successor ; but  the  Blind  Abbot 
*ield  his  place,  as  he  thought,  in  spite  of  the  English.  Gormly,  the 
daughter  of  O’Rourke — i.e.,  of  Brian,  son  of  Owen135 — a woman  who 
had  spent  her  life  with  husbands  worthy  of  her,  a prosperous  and 
serene  woman,  who  had  never  merited  blame  or  censure  from  the 
Church  or  the  literati,  or  any  reproach  on  account  of  her  hospita- 
lity or  name,136  died.  Brian,  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Brian,  son  of 
Owen  O’Rourke,  made  an  incursion  into  Dartry  Mac  Clancy  in  the 
very  beginning  of  the  month  of  January,  and  despatched  marau- 
ding squadrons  through  the  fastnesses  of  Dartry  to  collect  preys, 
and  they  obtained  great  spoils.  Mac  Clancy,  with  a numerous 
body  of  Scots  and  Irishmen,  pursued  and  overtook  them.  Brian 
proceeded  to  resist  them,  and  they  continued  fighting  and  skir- 
mishing with  each  other  as  the}7  went  along,  until  they  came  face 
to  face  at  Beanna-bo,137  in  Breifny. 

When  the  men  of  Breifny  and  O’Rourke’s  people  heard  that  Brian 
had  gone  to  Dartry,  they  assembled  together  to  meet  him  at  a cer- 
tain narrow  pass  by  which  they  thought138  he  would  come  on  to 
them.  They  perceived  him  approaching  at  a slow  pace  and  with 
great  haughtiness,  sustaining  the  attacks  of  his  enemies ; and 

134  To  go  westwards — i.e.,  to  return  to  Ireland. 

135  Son  of  Owen — Charles  O’Conor  of  Belanagare  adds  that  she  was  the  daughter  of 
Brian  Ballagh,  son  of  Owen,  son  of  Tiernan,  son  of  Teige  O'Rourke. 

136  Name— i.e.,  her  fame  for  goodness. 

137  Bea  ■na-bo—i.e.,  the  Peaks  of  the  Cows,  now  Benbo,  a remarkable  mountain  near  the 
parish  of  Drumleas,  barony  of  Dromahaire,  and  county  of  Lietrim,  extending  from  near 
Manor  Hamilton  in  the  direction  of  Sligo  for  about  three  miles.  According  to  the  tradi- 
tion in  the  country,  this  mountain  is  pregnant  with  gold  mines. 

138  They  thought . — This  should  be,  They  knew. 


74 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


although  [they,  as]  his  own  true  followers,139  should  have  succored 
him  [on  such  an  emergency],  it  was  not  so  that  they  acted,  but 
they  gave  their  day’s  support140  in  battle  to  his  enemies,  so  that  the 
heroic  soldier  was  attacked  on  both  sides.  He  was  met  by  shouts 
before  and  behind,  [and]  he  was  so  surrounded  on  every  side  that 
he  could  not  move  backwards  or  forwards.  In  this  conflict  many 
men  were  slain  around  him,  and  [among  the  rest]  was  cut  off  a 
company  of  gallowglasses  of  the  Mac  Sheehys,  who  were  the  surviv- 
ing remnant  and  remains  of  the  slaughter  of  the  gallowglasses  of 
the  Geraldines,  who  were  along  with  Brian  on  that  day,  and  who 
had  gone  about  from  territory  to  territory  offering  themselves  for 
hire  after  the  extermination  of  the  noblemen  by  whom  they  had 
been  employed  previously;  and  they  would  not  have  been  thus  cut 
off  had  they  not  been  attacked  by  too  many  hands  and  overwhelmed 
by  numbers. 

The  men  of  Breifny  and  O’Rourke’s  people  gave  protection  to 
Brian  in  this  perilous  situation,  and  carried  him  off  under  their 
protection  to  be  guarded.  On  the  third  day  afterwards  [however], 
they  came  to  the  resolution  of  malevolently  and  maliciously  putting 
him  to  death,  he  being  under  their  clemency  and  their  protection. 
O’Rourke  was  accused141  of  participating  in  this  unbecoming  deed. 

Edmund  Dorcha  [the  Dark],  the  son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Mur- 
rough,  son  of  Rory  More,  and  Turlough,  the  son  of  Edmund  Oge, 
son  of  Edmund,  son  of  Turlough  Mac  Sheehy,  were  both  executed 
at  Dublin.  There  was  much  rain  this  year,  so  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  corn  in  Ireland  was  destroyed. 

Dermot,  the  son  of  Donnell  Mag  Congail142  (Mac  Goingle),  died 
on  the  14th  of  June. 

A proclamation  of  Parliament 143  was  issued  to  the  men  of  Ire- 
land, commanding  their  chiefs  to  assemble  in  Dublin  precisely  on 

139  Ilisown  true  followers— i.e..  these  were  his  own  followers  who  posted  themselves  in- 
the  narrow  pass  to  intercept  his  retreat.  It  looks  strange  that  the  Four  Masters  should 
not  have  told  us  why  his  own  followers  should  have  acted  thus  : but  we  may  conjecture 
that  they  did  so  by  order  of  O’Rourke,  who,  having  submitted  to  the  Government  this 
year,  did  not  wish  that  Erian  should  thus  violate  the  law.  See  “ Chorographical  Descrip- 
tion of  Iar-Connaught,”  edited  by  Mr.  Hardiman,  p 346. 

14°  Their  day's  su/pport.  — This  is  a common  Irish  phrase. 

141  Was  accused. — Literally,  “A  bad  share  of  this  evil  deed  was  ascribed  to  O’Rourke.” 

142  Mag-Congail — Now  anglici  Magomgle,  a name  still  common  in  the  south  of  the  county 
of  Donegal. 

143  Parliament  .—For  some  curious  notices  of  the  Parliaments  held  in  Elizabeth’s  reign, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  Hardiman’s  edition  of  the  “Statute  of  Kilkenny,”  Introduction, 
p.  xiii.  el  eeq. 


Michael  O' C levy,  OS./7. 


75 


May-day,144  for  the  greater  part  of  the  people  of  Ireland  were  at 
this  time  obedient  to  their  sovereign;  and  accordingly  they  all  at 
that  summons  did  meet  in  Dublin  face  to  face.  Thither  came  the 
chiefs  of  Kinel-Connell 145  and  Kinel-Owen — namely,  O’Neill 
(Turlough  Luineach,146  the  son  of  Niall  Conallagh,  son  of  Art,  son 
of  Con,  son  of  Henry,  son  of  Owen),  and  Hugh,  the  son  of 
Ferdoragh,  son  of  Con  Bacagh,  son  of  Con,  son  of  Henry,  son  of 
Owen — i.e.,  the  young  Baron  O’Neill,  who  obtained  the  title  of 
Earl  of  Tyrone  at  this  Parliament ; and  O’Donnell  (Hugh  Roe,  the 
son  of  Manus,147  son  of  Hugh  Duv,  son  of  Hugh  Roe,  son  of  Niall 
G-arv,  son  of  Turlough  of  the  Wine) ; Maguire  148  (Cuconnaught, 

144  Precisely  on  May-day.— This  Parliament  assembled  at  Dublin  on  the  26th  of  April, 
1585,  according  to  the  original  record  of  it  preserved  in  the  Rolls’  Office,  Dublin.  See  Ap- 
pendix to  the  “ Statute  of  Kilkenny,”  p.  139. 

145  Kinel-Connell—  It  looks  very  strange  that  the  Four  Masters  should  mention  Kinell- 
Connell  first  in  order,  as  O’Donnell  was  not  acknowledged  as  a member  of  this  Parlia- 
ment. See  lists  of  the  “ Lords,  spirituall  and  temporall,  etc.,  etc.,  as  were  summoned  into 
Parliament  holden  before  the  Right  Honorable  Sir  John  Perrot,  Knyght, Lord  Drputie- 
Generall  of  the  realme  of  Ireland,  xxvi°  die  Aprilis,  anno  regni  Regine  nostre  Elizabeth 
vicesimo  septimo,”  printed  in  the  third  Appendix  to  Hardiman’s  edition  of  the  “ Statute 
of  Kilkenny,”  p.  139. 

146  Turlough  Luineach. — He  came  to  Dublin  to  attend  this  Parliament,  but  it  does  not 
appear  that  he  took  his  seat,  as  his  name  is  not  in  the  official  list.  It  appears,  by  patent 
to  Elizabeth,  that  the  queen  intended  to  create  him  Earl  of  Clan  O’Neill  and  Baron  of 
Clogher,  but  the  patent  was  never  perfected.  His  rival,  Hugh,  son  of  Ferdoragh,  is  en- 
tered twice  in  this  list,  once  as  Lord  of  Dunganyne,  and  again  as  Earl  of  Tyrone.  This 
latter  title  was  evidently  interlined  after  his  claim  had  been  allowed  by  this  Parliament. 
The  first  title  should  have  been  cancelled  after  the  interlining  of  the  higher  title.  Tur- 
lough Luineach  is  supposed  by  our  historians  to  have  sat  in  this  Parliament,  but  they 
have  not  told  us  in  what  capacity.  It  is  stated  in  “ Perrott’s  Life  ” that  it  was  the  pride 
of  Perrott  that  he  could  prevail  on  the  old  Irish  leaders,  not  only  to  exchange  their 
savage  (?)  state  for  the  condition  of  English  subjects,  but  to  appear  publicly  in  the  Eng- 
lish garb,  and  to  make  some  effort  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the  manners  of  his 
court,  but  that  it  was  not  without  the  utmost  reluctance  and  confusion  that  they  thus 
appeared  to  resign  their  ancient  manners.  That  Turlough  Luineach  in  his  old  age,  en- 
cumbered with  his  fashionable  habiliments,  expressed  his  discontent  with  a good-humored 
simplicity  : “ Prithee,  my  lord,”  said  he,  “ let  my  chaplain  attend  me  in  his  Irish  mantle  ; 
thus  shall  your  English  rabble  be  diverted  from  my  uncouth  figure  and  laugh  at  him  ” 
Sir  Richard  Cox,  who  embraced  every  oppo:  tunity  of  traducing  the  Irish,  asserts  that 
“the  Irish  Lords  were  obliged  to  wear  robes,  and,  the  better  to  induce  them  to  it,  the 
Deputy  bestowed  robes  on  Turlough  Lynogh  and  other  principal  men  of  the  Irish,  which 
they  embraced  like  fetters.”  The  representatives  of  these  chieftains,  Turlough  and 
Hugh,  are  now  unknown,  but  there  are  various  persons  of  the  name  Mac  Baron,  now  in 
humble  circumstances,  in  the  county  of  Tyrone,  who  claim  descent  from  Cormac  mac 
Baron,  the  brother  of  Hugh,  Earl  of  Tyrone. 

147  Hugh  Roe , the  son  of  Manus  —He  became  chief  of  Tirconnell  on  the  death  of  his  elder 
brother,  Calvagh,  in  1566.  The  race  of  this  Hugh  have  been  long  extinct.  The  O’Donnells 
of  Castlebar,  in  Ireland,  and  the  more  illustrious  O’Donnells  of  Austria  and  Spain,  are 
descended  from  his  eldest  brother,  Calvagh. 

148  Maguire.— The  chieftain  of  Fermanagh  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Parlia- 
ment. This  Cuconnaught  was  the  ancestor  of  the  late  Constantine  Maguire,  Esq.,  of 
Tempo. 


/6  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

the  son  of  Cuconnaught,  son  of  Brian,149  son  of  Philip,  son  of 
Thomas)  ; O’Doherty  (John  Oge,  the  son  of  John,  son  of  Felim, 
sou  of  Conor  Carragh)  ; O’Boyle160  (Turlough,  the  son  of  Niall, 
soil  of  Turlough  Oge,  son  of  Turlough  More)  ; and  O’ Gallagher 161 
(Owen,  the  son  of  Tuathal,  son  of  John,  son  of  Rory,  son  of  Hugh). 
To  this  assembly  also  repaired  Mac  Mahon 162  (Ross,  the  son  of  Art, 
son  of  Brian  of  the  Early  Rising,  son  of  Redmond,  son  of  Glas- 
ney) ; O’Kane  153  (Rory,  the  son  of  Manus,  son  of  Donough  the 


149  O'Doherty , chief  of  Inishowen.  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Parliament. 
There  are  various  respectable  branches  of  this  family  in  Inishotven,  but  the  eldest 
branch  is  not  determined.  The  most  distinguished  man  of  the  name  in  Ireland  is  the 
Honorable  Chief  Justice  Doherty  ; and  Mr  Thomas  Doherty,  of  Muff,  so  remarkable  for 
his  gigantic  stature,  has,  by  honest  industry,  realized  a larger  property  than  the  chief- 
tains of  Inishowen  had  ever  enjoyed. 

iso  O' Boyle,  chief  of  Boylagh,  in  the  west  of  the  county  of  Donegal,  did  not  attend  as  a 
member  of  this  Parliament.  This  family  are  dwindled  into  petty  farmers  and  cottiers. 

151  O'  Gallagher,  O'Donnell’s  marshal,  who  had  a small  tract  of  land  in  the  barony  of 
Tirhugh,  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Parliament.  Though  the  family  is  one  of 
the  most  regal  of  the  Milesian  race,  there  are  none  of  the  name  at  present  above  the 
rank  of  farmers  in  the  original  country  of  Tirhugh,  and  very  few  in  any  part  of  Ireland. 
Captain  Gallagher,  of  Kill  of  Grange,  near  Dublin,  and  Henry  Gallagher  Esq.,  Baldoyle, 
Raheny,  form  the  aristocracy  of  this  name  at  present. 

152  Mac  Mahon , chief  of  Oriel,  did  not  attend  this  Parliament  as  a member.  The  pre- 
sent representative  of  this  family  is  unknown  to  the  Editor.  The  Baron  Hartland,  of 
Strokestown,  in  the  County  Roscommon,  and  Sir  Ross  Mahon,  of  Castlegar,  in  the  county 
of  Galway,  are  said  to  be  of  this  race,  but  their  pedigrees  are  unknown.  Sir  Beresford 
Mac  Mahon,  the  son  of  the  late  Sir  William  Mac  Mahon,  Master  of  the  Rolls  in  Ireland, 
is  of  a very  obscure  branch  of  the  Mac  Mahons  of  the  county  of  Clare,  his  grandfather 
having  been  a gentleman’s  servant  and  his  pedigree  unknown. 

153  O' Kane,  chief  of  Oireacht-TTi-Chathain,  did  not  attend  as  a member.  The  present 
representative  of  this  family  is  unknown.  The  only  person  of  the  name  in  the  county  of 
Londonderry,  whose  pedigree  was  confidently  traced  to  Donnell  Cleireach  O Kane  of 
Dungiven,  when  the  Editor  examined  the  county  of  Londonderry  in  1834,  was  George 
O’Kane,  who  was  gardener  to  Francis  Bruce,  of  Downhill.  Sir  Richard  Cane  [O’Cathain], 
of  the  county  of  Waterford,  and  Sir  Robert  Kane,  of  Dublin,  the  distinguished  chemist 
who  has  reflected  so  much  honor  on  his  name  and  country  in  the  nineteenth  century,  are 
undoubtedly  of  this  race,  but  their  pedigrees  are  not  satisfactorily  made  out.  There  are 
several  of  the  name  in  Boston  and  other  parts  of  America,  some  of  whom  are  related  to 
Sir  Robert  Kane  of  Dublin,  and  are  distinguished  for  scientific  and  literary  attain- 
ments. 

[The  foregoing  note  by  Dr.  O’Donovan  calls  for  some  explanation. 

It  is  more  likely  to  mislead  the  reader  than  to  throw  any  new  light  on  the  subject  of 
which  it  treats.  From  its  perusal  a person  would  be  likely  to  .conclude  that  the  O’Kane 
family  had  almost  dwindled  down  to  one  person  in  the  county  of  Londonderry.  But  such 
is  not  at  all  the  fact.  The  present  writer  has  made  an  earnest  and  careful  research  into 
the  history  of  this  ancient  Irish  family  ; and,  as  so  little  is  generally  known  about  it,  he 
feels  that  it  is  quite  proper  just  here  to  add  a few  words.  The  O' Kanes  (sometimes 
written  O'Cahan,  and  in  Irish  O'Oathain),  are  descended,  according  to  the  learned  works 
on  Irish  genealogy,  from  Eogan — after  whom  the  county  of  Tyrone  is  named— son  of  Niall 
of  the  Nine  Hostages.  Little  is  known  of  the  O’Kanes  until  the  tenth  century,  when 
simames  became  hereditary  in  Ireland.  The  first  of  the  name  was  Casey  O’Kane.  He 
lived  about  a.d.  1000.  The  O’Kanes  inhabited  and  were  princo3  cr  rulers  of  a district 
which  stretches  from  the  Foyle  to  the  east  of  the  Bann,  and  is  bounded  on  the  north  by 


Michael  O'  C levy,  O.S.F.  77 

Hospitable,  son  of  John,  son  of  Aibhne)  ; Con,  the  son  of  Niall 
Oge,  son  of  Niall,  son  of  Con,  son  of  Hugh  Boy  O’Neill,  as  repre- 

the  sea  and  on  the  south  by  the  hills  of  Munterlooney.  The  whole  region  is  now  comprised 
in  the  baronies  of  Tikeeran,  Keenaght,  and  Coleraine,  in  the  county  of  Londonderry, 
which  was  once  known  as  “ O’Kane’s  country.” 

“ Great  benefactors  to  the  Church,”  writes  Father  Meehan,  “ were  the  O’Kanes  ; for 
they  founded  and  endowed  the  monastery  of  the  Regular  Canons  of  St.  Augustine  at 
Dungiven,  where  the  sculptured  tomb  of  the  greatest  of  their  race,  Cooey-na-Gall,  still 
exists.”  This  abbey  was  founded  by  Dermot  O’Kane  in  the  year  1100.  The  town  of 
Dungiven  was  founded  by  the  O’Kanes  in  1297.  According  to  Father  Meehan,  their  prin- 
cipal seats  or  castles  were  Ainoch,  Dungiven,  and  Limavady,  the  latter  of  whioh  “ stands 
upon  a time-worn  cliff  a hundred  feet  above  the  point  where  the  Roe  forms  a cataract  of 
exceeding  beauty.” 

The  chief  of  the  O’Kane  sept,  adds  the  same  accurate  writer,  was  a high  functionary 
whenever  the  O' Neill  was  inaugurated  on  the  royal  hill  of  Tullaghoge,  for  it  was  his  office 
to  cast  the  gold  shoe  over  the  head  of  the  prince-elect.  Whenever  the  latter  made  war, 
O’Kane  was  also  to  furnish  him  with  a contingent  of  140  horse  and  400  light  and  heavy 
infantry. 

The  O'Kanes  have  ever  been  the  stern  and  unchanging  foes  of  English  power  and  Eng- 
lish misrule  in  Ireland.  And  even  out  of  Ireland  they  made  their  power  felt.  We  are 
told  that  on  the  field  of  Bannockburn  their  bright  swords  flashed  in  the  sun  and  fell  on 
the  English  troops  with  terrific  force,  thus  materially  aiding  the  brave  Bruce  to  achieve 
a glorious  victory. 

The  bard  O’Duggan,  who  died  in  1370,  wrote  : 

“ Of  the  valiant  race  of  Eogan, 

The  now  fair  chief  of  Kianacht  is  O’Kane.” 

The  family  reached  the  zenith  of  its  greatness  in  the  person  of  Cooey  O’Kane,  known 
in  history  as  Cooey-na-Gall — i.e.,  hunter  of  the  English,  or  foreigners.  His  death  is  thus 
recorded  in  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  ” : “ The  age  of  Christ  1385.  Cooey  O Kane, 
lord  of  Oireacht-Ui-Chathain,  died,  while  at  the  pinnacle  of  prosperity  and  renown.” 
“ He  was  buried,”  writes  Dr.  O’Donovan,  “ in  the  old  church  of  Dungiven,  where  his  tomb 
is  still  preserved,  of  which  an  illustration  is  given  in  the  Dublin  Penny  Journal,  vol.  i. 
Pi  405.  It  is  an  altar  tomb  of  much  architectural  beauty,  situated  in  the  south  side  of 
the  chancel.  O'Kane  is  represented  in  armor,  in  the  usual  recumbent  position,  with  one 
hand  resting  on  his  sword,  and  on  the  front  of  the  tomb  are  figures  of  six  warriors 
sculptured  in  relievo.”  Dr.  Petrie  also  describes  this  tomb  as  possessing  much  architec- 
tural beauty.  “ Dungiven  is  to  this  day,”  says  Father  Meehan,  “ the  burying-place  of  the 
O’Kanes.”  Its  cemetery  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  in  Ireland. 

There  is  still  preserved  in  the  English  State  Paper  Office  a singular  document,  which 
gives  an  interesting  picture  of  the  state  of  Ireland  in  1515.  In  it  the  O’Kanes  are  men- 
tioned as  among  the  great  Irish  chiefs  of  that  day.  They  weue  ever  the  faithful  allies  of 
the  O’Neills  in  the  contest  with  England.  Even  in  1585,  when  Shane  O’Neill  was  attainted 
by  Elizabeth,  English  power,  as  Father  Meehan  remarks,  was  not  able  to  transform  the 
territory  of  the  O'Kanes  into  shire  ground.  In  the  long  and  gallant  struggle  of  Hugh 
O’Neill  with  the  armies  of  England,  his  chief  ally  was  his  son-in-law,  Donald  O’Kane,  who 
supported  him  with  “ 1,200  foot  and  300  horse,  the  ablest  men  that  Ulster  yielded.”  Some- 
time after  O'Neill’s  flight,  Donald  O’Kane  was  arrested,  immured  in  Dublin  Castle,  and 
finally  sent  to  the  Tower  of  London,  where,  after  about  seventeen  years’  imprisonment, 
he  died  in  1627. 

The  territory  of  the  O’Kanes  was  forfeited  to  the  English  crown.  “It  was,”  writes 
Montgomery,  first  Protestant  Bishop  of  Derry,  who  got  his  share  of  the  plundered  land, 
“ large,  pleasant,  and  fruitful;  twenty-four  miles  in  length  between  Lough  Foyle  and  the 
Bann  ; and  in  breadth,  from  the  sea  coast  towards  the  lower  part  of  Tyrone,  fourteen 
miles.”  In  that  rich  domain,  in  Glenconkeine  alone,  a number  of  English  thieves  and 
adventurers,  in  1609,  felled  oak  to  the  value  of  about  $300, 000  for  the  purpose  of  building 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


78 

sentative  of  the  O’Neills  of  Clannaboy ; 154  and  Magennis 166  (Hugh, 
the  son  of  Donnell  Oge,  son  of  Donnell  Duv). 

Thither  came  also  the  chiefs  of  the  Rough  Third  of  Connaught 
— namely,  O’Rourke 156  (Brian,  the  son  of  Brian,  son  of  Owen)  ; 
O’Reilly  (John  Roe,167  the  son  of  Hugh  Conallagh,  son  of  Mael- 
mora,  son  of  John,  son  of  Cathal),  and  his  uncle,  Edmond,  son  of 
Maelmora,158  both  of  whom  were  then  at  strife  with  each  other 
concerning  the  lordship  of  their  country ; also  both  the  O’Farrellsi 
— viz.,  O’Farrell  Bane159  (William,  the  son  of  Donnell,  son  of 
Cormac),  and  O’Farrell  Boy 160  (Fachtna,  the  son  of  Brian,  son  of 
Rory,  son  of  Cathal). 

the  town  of  Londonderry.  Thus  this  ancient  and  noble  Irish  family  was  robbed  and 
plundered  by  the  grasping,  shameless,  and  ferocious  government  of  England. 

After  the  confiscation  of  their  broad  lands,  many  of  the  O’Kanes  took  service  in  the 
Catholic  armies  of  Spain  and  Austria.  One  of  these,  Gen.  Daniel  O’Kane,  won  high  dis- 
tinction in  the  Netherlands.  In  1642  he  came  to  Ireland  as  a Lieutenant-General  to  the 
celebrated  Owen  Roe  O’Neill.  He  fell  in  battle,  gloriously  fighting  for  the  freedom  of  his 
native  Isle.  “ This  Daniel  O’Kane,”  says  Father  Meehan,  “was  singularly  gifted  as  a 
linguist  and  general  scholar,  and  was  much  lamented  by  his  chief.” 

Though  reduced  to  the  condition  of  tenantry  to  English  adventurers,  the  descendants 
of  Cooey-na-Gall  still  continued  to  hold  a large  portion  of  the  county  of  Londonderry. 
And  there  many  of  the  name,  highly  respectable  families,  can  be  found  even  to  this  day. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  the  representative  of  the  oldest  branch  of  the 
race  was  Dermot  O’Kane,  who  held  a considerable  district  of  country  in  the  territory  of 
his  ancestors.  This  venerable  man  died  about  the  year  1830.  His  eldest  son,  Bernard 
O’Kane,  emigrated  to  the  United  States  in  1817,  making  his  residence  in  Philadelphia, 
where  he  died.  Bernard  O’Kane’s  family  consisted  of  but  two  daughters,  who  now  re- 
side in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  and  one  of  whom — the  mother  of  the  present  writer— was  born 
in  Philadelphia.] 

154  O' Neills  of  Clannaboy.— Con,  the  son  of  Niall  Oge,  did  not  attend  this  Parliament  as  a 
member  ; but  his  nephew,  Shane  Mac  Brian,  the  ancestor  of  the  present  Viscount 
O'Neill,  is  marked  in  the  official  list  as  one  of  the  knights  for  the  county  of  Antrim. 

155  Magennis. — Sir  Hugh  Magennis,  chief  of  Iveagh,  was  elected  one  of  the  knights  of 
Parliament  for  the  county  of  Down  this  year,  his  colleague  being  Sir  Nicholas  Bagnell. 
Captain  Magennis,  the  nephew  of  the  late  Lord  Enniskillen,  represents  a respectable 
branch  of  this  family. 

158  O'Rourke.—  He  did  not  attend  this  Parliament  as  a member.  There  is  a Prince 
O’Rourke  in  Russia,  whose  immediate  ancestors,  as  Counts  O'Rourke,  attained  high  dis- 
tinction in  that  empire.  He  is  said  to  be  the  chief  of  his  name.  Ambrose  O’Rourke, 
Esq.,  J.P..  of  Ballybollen,  County  Antrim,  descends  from  the  house  of  Dromahaire. 

157  John  Roe.— The  official  list  of  the  members  of  this  Parliament  gives  Philip  O’Reyly 
as  the  colleague  of  Edmond.  He  was  the  brother  of  John  Roe. 

168  Edmond , the  son  of  Maelmora  —He  was  Tanist  of  East  Breifny,  and  was  elected  one 
of  the  knights  of  Parliament  for  the  county  of  Cavan.  The  present  representative  of 
this  Edmond  is  Myles  John  O'Reilly,  Esq , late  of  the  Heath  House,  and  now  living  in 
France. 

159  O' Farrell  Bane— William  O’Fferrall  was  duly  elected  one  of  the  knights  of  Parlia- 
ment for  the  county  of  Longford.  Mr.  O’Farrell,  of  Dublin,  the  tax  collector,  is  the 
representative  of  this  family,  according  to  Dr.  George  Petrie  ; but  the  editor  is  not 
acquainted  with  the  evidences  which  prove  his  descent. 

16°  O' Farrell  Boy f—Ftaghny  O’Fferrall  was  duly  elected  one  of  the  knights  of  Parlia- 
ment for  the  county  of  Longford,  and  his  name  appears  on  the  official  list.  The  editor 


Michael  G'Clery , O.S.F. 


79 


Thither  also  repaired  the  Sil- Murray,  with  their  dependants — 
namely,  the  son  of  O’Conor  Don  161  (Hugh,  the  son  of  Derm  at, 
son  of  Carbry,  son  of  Owen  Caech,  son  of  Felim  Geanneach)  ; 
O’Conor  Roe  162  (Teigh  Oge,  the  son  of  Teige  Boy,  son  of  Catlial 
Roe)  ; O’Conor  Sligo  163  (Donnell,  the  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Cathal 
Oge,  son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Owen,  son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Mur- 
tough)  ; and  a deputy  from  Mac  Dermot  of  Moylurg 164 — namely, 
Brian,  son  of  Rory,  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Rory  Oge — for  Mac  Dermot 
himself  (i.e.,  Teige,  the  son  of  Owen)  was  a very  old  man ; and 
O’Beirn165  (Carbry,  the  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Carbry,  son  of 
Melaghlin). 

Thither  went  also  Teige,  the  son  of  William,  son  of  Teige  Duv 


does  not  know  who  the  present  representative  of  this  Fachtna,  or  of  the  O’Farrell 
Boy,  is. 

lfl  O'1  Conor  Don. — He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  This  family  is  now  repre- 
sent d by  the  member  from  Roscommon,  Denis,  the  eon  of  Owen,  son  of  Denis,  son  of 
Charles  the  historian,  son  of  Donough  Liath,  son  of  Cathal,  son  of  Cathal,  son  of  Hugh 
O Conor  Don  of  Ballintober,  who  is  the  person  mentioned  in  the  text.  The  only  other 
surviving  members  of  this  family  are  Denis  O’Conor  of  Mountdruid,  Arthur  O’Conor  of 
Elphin,  and  Matthew  O'Conor,  Esqrs.,  sons  of  Matthew,  son  of  Denis,  son  of  Charles 
O’Conor  of  Belanagare,  the  historian. 

162  O' Conor  Roe—  He  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  knights 
elected  for  the  county  of  Roscommon  were  Sir  Richard  Byngham  and  Thomas  Dillon. 
The  late  Peter  O’Conor  Roe  of  Tomona,  in  the  county  of  Roscommon,  who  left  one  ille- 
gitimate son,  Thomas  of  Ballintober,  was  the  last  recognized  head  of  this  family. 
There  is  another  family  of  the  O’Conors  Roe,  living  in  the  village  of  Lanesborough,  who 
retain  a small  property  in  Slieve  Baune  ; and  there  are  others  of  undoubted  legitimate 
descent  living  in  and  near  the  town  of  Roscommon,  but  they  are  reduced  to  utter 
poverty. 

163  O' Conor  Sligo. — Sir  Donald  O'Conor  Slygagh  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament. 
The  knights  elected  for  the  county  of  Slygagh  were  Sir  Valantyn  Browne,  Ja.  Crofton, 
and  Jo.  Marbury.  The  last  chief  of  the  O’Conor  Sligo  family  was  Daniel  O’Conner 
Sligoe,  who  was  a lieutenant-general  in  the  Austrian  service  ; he  died  at  Brussels  on  the 
7th  of  February,  1756,  and  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Gudule,  where  the  last  female 
of  the  house  of  Hapsburg  erected  a monument  to  him.  Some  of  the  collateral  branches 
of  this  family  who  remained  in  Ireland  are  still  respectable but  the  present  senior  re- 
presentative of  the  name  is  a struggling  farmer,  as  the  late  Matthew  O’Conor,  of  Mount- 
druid, who  knew  him  intimately,  often  told  the  Editor. 

164  Mac  Dermot  of  Moylurg  —His  deputy  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Parliament. 
This  family  is  now  represented  by  Charles  Mac  Dermot,  Esq  , of  Coolavin,  who  ridicu- 
lously styles  himself  “ Prince  of  Coolavin,”  a small  barony  to  which  his  ancestors  had  no 
claim. 

185  O'Beime.— He  was  chief  of  Tir-Briuin-na-Sinna,  a beautiful  district  lying  between 
Elphin  and  Jamestown,  in  the  east  of  the  county  of  Roscommon.  Mr.  O’Beirne,  of  Dan- 
gan-I-Beirne,  «!?ias  Dangan  Bonacuillinn,  in  the  parish  of  Kilmore,  near  the  Shannon,  in 
this  territory,  is  the  undoubted  head  of  this  family.  He  still  possesses  a small  remnant 
of  Tir-Briuin.  O’Beirne  did  not  attend  this  Parliament  as  a member. 


8o 


T he  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

O’Kelly ; 166  and  O’Madden 167  (Donnell,  the  son  of  John,  son  of 
Breasal). 

Thither  likewise  went  the  Earl  of  Clanrickard 168  (Ulick,  the  son 
of  Kickard,  son  of  Ulick-na-g  Ceann),  and  the  two  sons  of  Gilla- 
Duv  O’Shaughnessy 169 — i.e.,  John  and  Dermot.  None  worthy  of 
note  went  thither  from  West  Connaught,  with  the  exception  of 
Murrough  of  the  Battle-Axes,  the  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Murrough, 
son  of  Bory  0 ’Flaherty. 170 

Thither  in  like  manner  went  the  Earl  of  Thomond  171  (Donough, 
the  son  of  Conor,  son  of  Donough,  son  of  Conor,  son  of  Turlough, 
son  of  Teige  O’Brien)  ; and  Sir  Turlough,173  the  son  of  Donnell, 

166  Teige,  son  of  William , etc .,  O' Kelly. — He  was  the  head  of  the  branch  of  the  O’Kellys 
seated  at  Mullaghmore,  in  the  county  of  Ualway.  This  Teige  was  not  chief  of  his  name, 
nor  did  he  attend  this  Parliament  as  a member.  The  race  of  this  Teige  are  now  extinct, 
but  the  families  of  Screen  and  Gallagh  are  still  extant  and  highly  respectable.  See 
“Tribes  and  (.  ustoms  of  Hy- Many,”  p.  121.  The  knights  of  Parliament  elected  for  the 
county  of  Galway  were  Thomas  le  Straunge  and  Francis  Shane,  who  was  a disguised 
O’Fferall. 

167  o' Madden. — Tie  did  not  attend  as  a member.  The  present  representative  of  this 
Donnell,  the  sen  of  John  O’Madden,  is  Ambrose  Madden  of  Streamston,  Esq.,  who  is  the 
son  of  Breasal,  son  of  Ambrose,  son  of  Breasal,  son  of  Daniel,  son  of  John,  son  of  Anmhadh, 
son  of  Donnell  mentioned  in  the  text.  See  “ Tribes  and  Customs  of  Hy-Many,”  p.  152. 

168  The  Earl  of  Clanrickard. — In  the  list  of  the  “ Temporal  Lordes  ” of  this  Parliament, 
printed  by  Mr.  Hardiman,  “ the  Earle  of  Clanricard  ” is  given  as  the  fourth  in  order.  He 
is  now  represented  by  the  Marquis  of  Clanricarde. 

169  o' Shaughnessy  — Neither  of  these  sons  of  O’Shaughnessy  was  a member  of  this  Par- 
liament. See  “ Genealogies,  Tribes,  etc.,  of  Hy-Fiachrach,”  pp.  378,386,  388  The  present 
head  of  this  family  is  Mr.  Bartholomew  O’Shaughnessy  of  Galway.  The  Very  Rev.  and 
Ven.  Terence  O’Shaughnessy,  R.  C.  Dean  of  Killaloe,  Dr.  Wm.  O’Shaughnessy  of  Calcut- 
ta, F.R.S.,  and  alltheO’Shaughnessys  of  the  county  of  Clare,  are  not  of  the  senior  branch 
of  this  family,  but  descended  from  Roger,  the  third  son  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  "William 
O’Shaughnessy,  who  was  made  free  of  the  Corporation  of  Galway  in  1648,  and  who  was 
the  son  of  Sir  Dermot  II.,  who  died  in  1606,  who  was  the  son  of  Sir  Roger  I.,  who  was  the 
son  of  Sir  Dermot  O’  haughnessy,  who  was  knighted  by  King  Henry  VIII.,  A. d.  1533.  A 
branch  of  this  family  have  changed  their  names  to  Sandys  ; and  Mr.  Levy,  the  well  known 
musician  of  the  Royal  Dublin  Theatre,  who  is  one  of  the  descendants  of  Lieutenant-Colonel 
"William  O'Shaughnessy  of  1648,  has  suppressed  his  father’s  name  and  retained  that  of 
his  mother,  contrary  to  the  usage  of  most  nations. 

j7°  O' Flaherty. Sir  Murrough  na  doe  O’Fflahertie  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament. 
This  chieftain  is  now  represented  by  Thomas  Henry  O’Fflahertie  of  Lemonfield,  in  the 
county  of  Galway,  who  is  the  son  of  Sir  John  O’Fflahertie,  the  son  of  Murrough,  son  of 
Brian  Oge,  son  of  Brian  Oge  na  Samhthach,  son  of  Teige,  who  was  son  of  Murrough  nah 
Tuagh,  or  Murrough  of  the  Battle-Axes,  who  was  appointed  “ chief  of  all  the  O’Fflaher- 
ties  ” by  Queen  Elizabeth.  See  Genealogical  Table  in  “ Chorographical  Description  of 
Iar-Connaught,”  edited  by  Mr.  Hardiman,  p.  362. 

171  The  Earl  of  Thomond.— In  the  official  list  printed  by  Mr.  Hardiman,  the  “ Earle  of 
Tomond”  is  given  as  fifth  in  order  among  the  “ Temporal  Lordes.”  The  race  of  this 
Donough,  son  of  Connor,  is  extinct.  The  present  Marquis  of  Thomond  descends  from 
Dermot,  who  was  the  son  of  Murrough,  first  Earl  of  Thomond,  from  whose  second  son, 
Donough,  the  family  of  Dromoland  are  descended. 

172  g\r  Turlough. — He  was  duly  elected  one  of  the  knights  of  Parliament  for  the  county 
of  Clare.  According  to  a pedigree  of  the  O’Briens,  preserved  in  a pap<>r  manuscript  in 


Michael  O' Clery , O.S.F. 


81 


son  of  Conor,  son  of  Turlongh,  son  of  Teige  O’Brien,  who  had 
been  elected  a knight  of  Parliament  for  the  county  of  Clare. 

Thither  went  Turlough,  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Conor  O’Brien ; 173 
and  also  the  lord  of  the  western  part  of  Clann-Coilein — namely, 
Mac  Namara 174  (John,  the  son  of  Teige)  ; and  Boethius,  the  son  of 
Hugh,  son  of  Boethius  Mac  Clancy,175  the  second  knight  of  Parlia- 
ment elected  to  represent  the  county  of  Clare. 

Thither  repaired  the  son  of  O’Loughlin  of  Burren  176  (Rossa,  the 
son  of  Owny,  son  of  Melaghlin,  son  of  Rury,  son  of  Ana) ; Mac-I- 
Brien  Ara,177  Bishop  of  Killaloe — namely,  Murtough,  son  of  Tur- 

the  Library  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  No.  23,  p.  61,  this  Sir  Turlough  had  a son  Donnell, 
who  married  Ellen,  the  daughter  of  Edmond  Fitzgerald,  knight  of  Glinn,  by  whom  he  had 
two  sons — 1,  Teige,  the  grandfather  of  Christopher  O’Brien,  Esq.  [of  Ennistimon],  who  was 
living  in  1713  when  this  pedigree  was  compiled  ; and  2,  Murtough,  who  married  Slaine. 
daughter  of  John  Mac  Namara  of  Moyreask,  by  whom  he  had  a son  Donnell,  who  married 
the  daughter  of  Major  Donough  Roe  Mac  Namara,  by  whom  he  had  issue  living  in  1713, 
but  the  compiler  of  this  pedigree  does  not  name  the  issue  of  Donnell  Spainneach.  Ac- 
cording to  the  tradition  in  the  country,  Terence  O’Brien,  Esq.,  of  Glencolumbkille,  is  the 
great-grandson  of  a Donnell  Spaineach,  son  of  Colonel  Murtough  O’Brien  ; but  Terence 
O’Brien  himself  asserts  that  he  descends  from  a Donnell  Spaineach,  who  was  the  son  of  a 
General  Murtough  O’Brien,  who  was  a son  of  Dermot,  fifth  Baron  of  Inchiquin,  but  the 
editor  has  not  been  able  to  find  any  evidence  to  prove  that  Dermot,  the  fifth  Baron  of 
Inchiquin,  had  a son  Murtough. 

173  Turlough , the  Son  of  Teige,  etc.,  O'Brien. — He  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Par- 
liament. The  Lord  of  Inchiquin  sat  in  this  Parliament  among  the  peers,  though  the 
Four  Masters  take  no  notice  of  him. 

174  Mac  Namara.— He  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  race  of  this 
John  is  extinct.  Major  Mac  Namara,  M.P.,  is  descended  from  a junior  branch  of  the 
eastern  Mac  Namara  family,  but  his  pedigree  is  not  satisfactorily  made  out.  Majoi 
Daniel  Mac  Mamara  Bourchier  desoends  by  the  mother’s  side  from  the  senior  branch  ot 
the  western  Mac  Namaras. 

175  Boethius  Mac  Clancy. — “ Boetius  Clanchy,”  who  was  the  Brehon  of  Thomond  and  a 
good  scholar,  was  duly  elected  one  of  the  two  knights  to  represent  the  county  of  Clare 
in  this  Parliament.  He  was  afterwards  appointed  High  Sheriff  of  the  county  of  Clare,  an 
office  for  which  he  was  very  well  qualified , and,  according  to  the  tradition  in  the  country, 
murdered  some  Spaniards  belonging  to  the  great  Armada,  who  were  driven  on  the  coast 
of  Clare  in  1588. 

176  O'Loughlin  of  Burren.— He  did  not  attend  as  a member  of  this  Parliament.  Mr. 
O’Loughlin,  of  Newton,  is  the  present  senior  representative  of  this  family.  Sir  Colman 
O’Loughlin  represents  a junior  branch. 

177  Mac-I-Brien  Ara. — This  bishop  was  the  son  of  Turlough  Mac-I-Brien  Ara,  who  made 
his  submission  to  Queen  Elizabeth  in  1567.  On  the  death  of  his  elder  brother, 
Donough,  Murtough  or  Maurice,  Bishop  of  Killaloe,  became  the  head  of  this  family. 
Murtough  O’Brien  Ara  was  appointed  Bishop  of  Killaloe  by  Queen  Elizabeth,  by  letters- 
patent  dated  the  15th  of  May,  1570,  and  had  his  writ  of  restitution  to  the  tempo- 
ralities the  same  day.  He  received  the  profits  of  this  see  six  years  before  his  conse- 
cration, but,  being  at  last  consecrated,  he  sat  about  thirty  six  years  after.  He  died 
on  the  last  day  of  April,  1613,  having  voluntarily  resigned  a year  before  his  death. 
Sjs  Harris’s  edition  of  “ Ware’s  Bishops,”  p.  595,  where  Harris  states  that  the  Arra 
fr-'m  whence  this  bishop's  family,  for  the  sake  of  distinction,  were  called  O’Brien- 
At  is  a barony  in  the  county  of  Limerick.  But  this  is  an  error  of  Harris,  who  ought 
to  tiave  known  that  Mac-I-Brien  was  seated  on  the  east  side  of  Lough  Derg,  in  the 


82 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland ’ 


lough,  son  of  Murtough,  son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Teige ; O’Carroll 178 
(Calvagh,  the  son  of  William  Odhar,  son  of  Ferganainm,  son  of 
Mulrony,  son  of  John)  ; Mac  Coghlan  179  (John,  the  son  of  Art, 
son  of  Cormac) ; and  O’Dwyer 180  of  Coill-na-manach  (Philip,  son 
of  Owny). 

Thither  went  Mac  Brien  of  Hy-Cuanagh,  181  namely,  Murtough, 
the  son  of  Turlough,  son  of  Murtough  ; the  lord  of  Carrigogunnell 182 
and  of  Fasach-Luimniglie  183 — namely,  Brian  Duv,  the  son  of  Don- 
ough,  son  of  Mahon,  son  of  Donough,  son  of  Brian  Duy  O’Brien  ; 
and  Conor-na-Moinge  [of  the  Long  Hair],  son  of  William 
Ceach,  son  of  Dermot  O’Mulryan,184  lord  of  Uaithne-Ui-Mhaoil- 
riain.  To  this  Parliament  repaired  some  of  the  chiefs  of  the  de- 
scendants of  .Eoghan  More, 185  with  their  dependants — namely,  Mac 

"barony  of  Ara,  or  Duharra,  in  the  county  of  Tipperary.  The  castle  of  Ballina,  near  the 
bridge  of  Killaloe,  and  the  castles  of  Castletown  and  Knoc-an-Ein  fhinn,  now  Birdhill,  in 
this  barony,  belonged  to  this  family.  It  should  be  here  remarked  that  the  “ Busshopp  of 
Xillalowe”  appears  in  the  list  of  spiritual  lords  of  this  Parliament.  The  race  of  this 
bishop  has  become  extinct,  but  some  of  the  line  of  Donnell  Connaughtagh  Mac-I-Brien 
Ara  are  still  possessed  of  some  property  in  the  territory.  Mr.  O’Brien,  of  Kincora  Lodge, 
Killaloe,  is  of  this  race.  See  pedigree  of  Mac-I  Brien  Ara,  preserved  in  the  Library  of 
• Trinity  College,  Dublin,  H.  1,  7. 

178  O' Carroll. — He  did  not  attend  this  Parliament  as  a member  of  it.  This  Calvagh  was 
the  third  illegitimate  son  of  Sir  William  O Carroll,  chief  of  Ely  O’Carroll,  comprising  at 
this  period  the  baronies  of  CQonlisk  and  Ballybritt,  in  the  south  cf  King’s  County.  The 
present  chief  of  this  family  is  unknown.  The  grandfather  of  Marchioness  Wellesley,  who 
died  in  America,  was  its  undoubted  representative. 

179  Mac  Coghlan. — He  did  not  attend  this  Parliament  as  a member  of  it.  The  last  chief 
of  this  family  died  some  forty  years  since  without  issue,  and  his  estates  passed  to  the 
Dalys  and  Armstrongs.  General  Coghlan  is  of  an  obscure  branch  of  this  family. 

180  O' Dwyer. — He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  Coill-na-manach  is  the  present 
barony  of  Kilnamanagh,  in  the  county  of  Tipperary.  The  present  chief  of  this  name  is 
unknown  to  the  editor.  There  is  a Colonel  Dwyer  of  Ballyquirk  Castle,  in  the  parish  of 
Lorha,  barony  of  Lower  Ormond,  and  county  of  Tipperary,  but  the  editor  does  not  know 
his  descent. 

181  Mac-JBrian  of  Hy-Cuanagh— He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  two  knights 
elected  for  the  county  of  Limerick  were  Thomas  Norris  aLd  Richard  Bourke.  Mac  Brian 
Cuanach  was  seated  in  the  barony  of  Coonagh,  in  the  county  of  Limerick,  where  the  ruins 
of  his  splendid  mansion  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  townland  and  parish  of  Castletown. 
The  present  representative  of  this  family  is  unknown  to  the  editor. 

182  The  Lord  of  Carrigogunnell—  He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  present 
representative  of  this  family  is  unknown  to  the  editor. 

183  Fasagh  Luimniglie—i.e.,  the  forest  cr  wilderness  of  Limerick.  This  was  a name  for 
a part  of  the  territory  of  Pobblebrien,  near  the  city  of  Limerick. 

184  O'Mulryan .—Chief  of  the  two  Ownys,  one  a barony  or  half-barony,  as  it  was  till 
recently  called,  in  the  county  of  Limerick,  and  the  other  a barony  in  the  county  of  Tippe- 
rary. He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  Ryans  of  Ballymakeogh,  near  New- 
port, in  Tipperary,  now  extinct,  were  the  senior  branch  of  this  family.  Edmond  0’Ryan» 
Esq.,  of  Bansha  House,  near  the  town  of  Tipperary,  and  George  Ryan,  Esq.,  of  Inch 
House,  were  considered  the  chief  representatives  of  this  family  in  1848,  when  the  editor 
examined  the  county  of  Tipperary  for  the  Ordnance  Survey. 

185  Eoghan  More—i.e.,  the  son  of  Oilioll  Olum,  King  of  Munster  in  the  third  century,  and 
, ancestor  of  the  dominant  families  of  Munster. 


Michael  OClery,  O.S.F. 


83 

Carthy  More 186  (Donnell,  the  son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Cormac 
Ladhracli)  ; Mac  Carthy  Cairbreach  187  (Owen,  son  of  Donnell,  son 
of  Fineen,  son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Dermot-an-Duna)  ; and  the  sons 
of  his  two  brothers — namely,  Donnell,  son  of  Cormac-na-h  Aine, 
and  Fineen,  the  son  of  Donough. 

Thither  also  went  the  two  chiefs  who  were  at  strife  with  each 
other  concerning  the  lordship  of  Duhallow  188 — namely,  Dermot, 
the  son  of  Owen,  son  of  Donough  an-Bhothair,  son  of  Owen,  son 
of  Donough  ; and  Donough,  the  son  of  Cormac  Oge,  son  of  Cor- 
mac, son  of  Donough. 

Thither  likewise  went  O’Sullivan  Beare  189  (Owen,  son  of  Dermot, 
son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Donough,  son  of  Dermot  Balbh) ; O’Sulli- 
van More  190  (Owen,  the  son  of  Donnell,  son  of  Donnell,  son  of 
Donnell -na  Sgreadaighe) ; O’Mahony  191  the  Western — namely, 


186  Mac  Carthy  More  —He  is  entered  in  the  list  next  after  “The  Earle  of  Tomond,”  as 
“ The'Earleof  Clancare,”  that  being  an  anglicized  abbreviation, and  not  Glencare,  the  vale 
of  the  river  Carthach,  in  the  county  of  Kerry,  as  ignorantly  assumed  by  most  Anglo- 
Irish  ■writers.  The  race  of  this  Earl  is  extinct. 

187  Mac  Carthy  Cairbreach.— He  was  Sir  Owen  Mac  Carthy  Reagh,  chief  of  Carbery,  in 
the  county  of  Cork.  He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  present  representa- 
tive of  this  family  is  said  to  be  the  Count  Mac  Carthy  of  France,  whose  pedigree  has  been 
published  by  Monsieur  Laine,  who  was  genealogist  to  Charles  X. 

188  Duhallow.— Neither  of  these  chiefs  was  member  of  this  Parliament.  The  knights 
elected  to  represent  the  county  of  Cork  in  this  Parliament  were  John  Norries,  Lord 
President,  William  Cogan,  and  John  Fitz  Edmond.  The  editor  does  not  know  the  present 
chief  of  this  family. 

189  O'Sullivan  Beare  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  present  representative 
of  this  family  is  unknown.  There  are  several  respectable  gentlemen  of  the  race  in  the 
baronies  of  Beare  and  Bantry,  but  the  editor  has  not  been  able  to  ascertain  their  pedi- 
grees. The  editor  is  not  aware  how  the  Baron  O’Sullivan  de  Grass,  the  present  Ambas- 
sador of  Belgium  at  the  Court  of  Vienna,  descends  ; the  family  claim  to  be  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  O’Sullivans.  It  is  probable  that  they  descend  either  directly  or  col- 
laterally with  the  O’Sullivan  who  was  one  of  the  faithful  companions  of  Prince  Charles 
Edward  in  his  perilous  wanderings  after  the  defeat  of  Culloden.  One  of  the  Baron’s 
brothers  is  married  to  the  sister  of  the  present  Sir  Roger  Palmer,  Bart. 

190  O'Sullivan  More.— He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  two  knights  elected 
to  represent  the  county  of  Kerry  in  this  Parliament  were  John  Fitzgerald  and  Thomas 
Spring.  The  representative  of  O’Sullivan  More  in  the  last  century  was  O’iullivan  of 
Tomies,  near  Killarney.  Timothy  O’Sullivan,  Esq.,  of  Prospect,  near  Kenmare,  repre- 
sents O’Sullivan  of  Cappanacush,  from  which  house  the  O’Sullivan  More  was  elected,  ii 
case  of  failure  cf  issue  in  the  senior  branch.  Mac  Gillicuddy  of  the  Reeks,  near  Killar- 
ney, whose  pedigree  is  very  well  known,  represents  another  branch  of  this  family  of 
O'Sullivan  More  ; and  Sir  Charles  Sullivan,  of  Thames  Ditton,  County  Surrey,  is  said,  in 
“ Burke’s  Peerage,”  to  be  of  this  family. 

191  O'Mahony — i.e.,  O’Mahony,  of  Foun  Iartharach,  or  Ivahagh,  in  the  southwest  of  Car- 
bery, in  the  county  of  Cork.  He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament.  The  present 
representative  of  this  family  is  supposed  to  be  O’Mahony  of  Dunlow,  near  Killarney. 
There  is  a Count  O'Mahony  of  France,  who  resides,  or  recently  resided,  at  Fribourg,  in 
Switzerland,  and  who,  no  doubt,  descends  from  “ le  fameux  MaJiony"  of  the  early  days  of 
the  Irish  Brigade. 


84 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Conor,  the  son  of  Conor  Fin  Oge,  son  of  Conor  Fin,  son  of  Conor 
O’Mahony;  and  O’Driscoll  More  192  (Fineen,  the  son  of  Conor,  son 
of  Fineen,  son  of  Conor). 

Thither  likewise  repaired  Mac  Gillapatriek  193  of  Ossory  (Fineen, 
the  son  of  Brian,  son  of  Fineen)  ; Mageoghegan  194  (Coula,  the  son 
of  Conor,  son  of  Leyny) ; and  O’Molloy  195  (Connell,  the  son  of 
Cahir). 

None  worthy  of  notice  are  said  to  have  gone  to  that  Parliament 
of  the  race  of  Laoighseach  Leannmor  196  son  of  Conall  Cearnach ; 
or  of  the  race  of  Kossa  Failghe,  197  the  son  of  Cahir  More,  from 

192  O' Driscoll  More— He  was  chief  of  Collymore,  a territory  of  which  Baltimore  was  the 
chief  town,  in  the  county  of  Cork.  Sir  Fineen  or  Florence  O’Driscoll  More  was  not  a 
member  of  this  i'arliament.  Con  O’Driscoll,  called  the  Admiral,  was  the  last  known  chief 
of  this  fami  y.  Alexander  O’Driscoll,  Esq  , J.  P.  of  the  county  of  Cork,  comes  from  a 
junior  branch. 

193  Mac  Gillapatriek,. — The  Lord  of  Upper  Ossory  sat  in  this  Parliament  among  the 
“TemporallLordes.”  The  late  Earl  of  Ossory  was  the  chief  of  this  name.  He  left  one 
illegitimate  son,  who  inherits  his  estates,  and  who  claims  legitimacy,  as  his  mother  had 
been  privately  married  to  the  Earl,  his  father,  by  a Roman  Catholic  priest 

194  Mageoghegan. — He  was  the  chief  of  Kineleaghe,  a territory  now  included  in  the 
barony  of  Moycashel,  in  the  county  of  Westmeath.  He  was  not  a member  of  this  Parlia- 
ment. The  two  knights  elected  to  represent  the  county  of  Westmeath  in  this  Parlia- 
ment were  ‘Ed.  Nugcnd  de  Discrt”  and  “Ed.  Nugent  de  Morton.”  The  present  chief 
of  the  Mageogkegans  is  John  Augustus  O’Neill  [Elageoghegan],  Esq.,  of  Bunowen  Castle, 
in  the  county  of  Galway,  the  grandson  of  Richard  Geoghegan,  so  remarkable  in  Ireland 
for  his  learning  and  knowledge  of  the  fine  arts.  Sir  Richard  Nagle,  of  Jamestown  and 
Donore  Castle,  in  the  county  of  Westmeath,  is  maternally  descended  from  the  senior 
branch  of  this  family,  but  he  cannot  be  considered  the  chief  of  the  Mageoghegans,  as  he 
is  not  of  the  name  by  paternal  descent. 

195  O'Molloy. — He  was  ohief  of  a territory  comprising  the  baronies  of  Fircall,  Bally- 
cowan,  and  Ballyboy,  in  the  present  King's  County,  but  he  did  not  attend  as  a member 
of  this  Parliament.  This  Connell  was  the  father  of  the  illustrious  Cahir  or  Carolus  O'Mol- 
loy, whose  hospitality  the  Rev.  P.  Fr.  Francis  O’Molloy  thus  lauds  in  an  incidental  re- 
mark in  his  “Irish  Prosody,'1  published  at  Rome  in  the  year  1677,  p.  180:  “ Difficile  qui- 
dem  factu  apparet  hoc  metri  genus,  verum  difficilius  creditu  quod  superius  allatum,  etc., 
refert ; verissimum  tamem,  cuius  ipse  occulares  vidi  et  audiui  testes  fide  dignissimos  ; 
nempS  quod  Carolus  Conalli  filius  Molloyorum  princeps.  Avus  Illustri  simi  nunc 
viuentis,  vastato  Hibemiae  Regno  fame,  flamma  ferro,  sub  Elizabetha  Regina  in  summis 
Annonae  penurijs,  imitatos  a sepso  Christo  Natalitijs  per  dies  duodecim  tractauerit  non- 
gentos  sexaginta  homines  in  domo  propria.”  There  are  several  respectable  gentlemen 
of  the  M olloys  of  this  race.  Daniel  Molloy,  Esq.,  of  Clonbela,  near  Birr,  in  the  King’s 
County,  is  the  present  head  of  the  family,  according  to  the  tradition  in  the  country,  but 
the  editor  does  not  know  his  pedigree. 

196  Race  of  Laoighseach  Leannmor — i.e.,  Laoighseach,  or  Lewis  of  the  large  mantle.  He 
is  otherwise  called  Laoighseach  Ceannmhor — i.e.,  of  the  large  head,  and  Laoighseach 
Lannmhor — i.e.,  of  the  large  sword.  He  is  the  ancestor  of  the  O’ Mores  and  their  cor- 
relatives, the  seven  septs  of  Leix.  The  present  representative  of  the  O'Mores  is  un- 
known. R.  More  O’Farrell,  M.P.,  descends  from  the  senior  branch  of  them  by  the  mother’s 
side  ; and  Garrett  Moore,  Esq.,  of  Cloghan  Castle,  calls  himseif  the  O’Moore,  though  he 
does  not  know  his  pedigree  beyond  the  year  1611,  and  there  is  strong  evidence  to  show 
that  he  is  an  offset  of  the  English  family  of  the  Moors  of  Drogheda. 

197  Race  of  Rosea  Failghe — i-e.,  the  O'Conors  Faly,  who  had  but  little  property  in  Ireland 
at  this  period.  The  present  chief  is  unknown. 


Michael  O’Clcry,  O.S.F. 


85 


Offaly  ; or  of  the  descendants  of  Daire  Baracli,198  the  son  of  Caliir 
More;  or  of  the  Kavanaghs,199  Byrnes,  Tooles,200  O’Dunnes,  or 
O’Dempsys.201  To  this  Parliament,  however,  went  the  senior  of 
Gaval-Rannall — namely,  Fiagh,202  the  son  of  Hugh,  son  of  John, 
son  of  Donnell  Glas  of  Glenmalure. 

All  these  nobles  assembled  in  Dublin  and  remained  there  for 
some  time,  but  the  business  of  the  Parliament  was  not  finished  293 
this  year.  They  then  departed  for  their  respective  homes. 

I9e  Daire  Barach.— The  principal  family  of  his  race  extant  at  this  period  was  Mac  Gor- 
man, who  was  then  seated  in  the  barony  of  Ibrickan  and  county  of  Clare.  There  are 
several  respectable  gentlemen  of  this  family  who  now  call  themselves  O’Gorman. 

199  Kavanaghs. — The  family  of  Borris-Idrone  are  the  senior  branch  of  this  family.  There 
are  several  highly  respectable  families  of  the  name  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  Vienna. 
These  are  supposed  to  be  descended  from  the  celebrated  Brian-na-Stroice  of  Drummin, 
son  of  Morgan,  son  of  Dowling  Kavanagh  of  Bally leigh,  in  the  county  c t Carlow,  who  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  his  valor  at  the  battles  of  the  Boyne  and  Aughrim.  His  son,  John 
Baptista  Kavanagh,  left  Ireland  after  the  capitulation  of  Limerick,  and  became  Baron 
Gniditz  in  Bohemia,  and  died  in  1774.  His  father,  Bria, n-na-Stroice , who  is  said  to  have 
been  the  largest  officer  in  James's  service,  remained  in  Ireland,  and  lived  at  Drummin 
till  February,  1735,  when  he  died  in  the  seventy-fourth  year  of  his  age,  and  was  buried 
at  St.  Mullin’s,  where  there  is  a curious  monument  to  his  memory.  See  Ryan’s  “ History 
and  Antiquities  of  the  County  of  Carlow,”  p.  350.  From  Maurice,  the  elder  brotfier  of 
Bria,n-na-Stroice,  is  lineally  descended  John  Kavanagh  (son  of  Dowling,  son  of  Morgan, 
son  of  Maurice,  son  of  Morgan,  son  of  Dowline  of  Ballyleigh,  son  of  Dermot,  son  of  Mur- 
rough,  brother  of  Cahir,  Baron  of  Ballyane),  of  Bauck,  near  St.  Mullin’s,  in  the  county  of 
Carlow,  -who  possesses  a small  estate  in  fee.  From  Rose,  the  daughter  of  Dowling 
Kavanagh  of  Ballyleigh,  who  was  married  in  the  year  1670  to  Cornelius  O’Donovan  of 
Ballymountain,  in  the  barony  of  Igrine  and  county  of  Kilkenny,  the  editor  is  the  fourth 
in  descent. 

200  Tooles.— The  head  of  this  family  in  the  last  century  was  Laurence  O’Toole,  Esq.,  of 
Buxtown,  alias  Fairfield,  in  the  county  of  Wexford. 

201  O’Dtmnes , O'  Dempseys.— The  present  head  of  the  O’Dunnes  is  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Francis  Dunne  of  Brittas,  in  the  Queen’s  County,  who  is  the  son  of  the  late  General 
Edward  Dunne,  son  of  Francis,  son  of  Edward,  son  of  Terence,  son  of  Charles,  son  of 
Barnaby,  patentee,  15  Car.  i , son  of  Brian,  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Leyny,  son 
of  Rory,  son  of  Donough,  sen  of  Amhalgaidh.  The  O’Dempseys  have  dwindled  into  ple- 
beians, and  Mr.  Dempsey,  of  Liverpool,  merchant,  is  now  the  most  distinguished  man  of 
that  name. 

202  Fiagh,  the  son  of  Hugh.—&Q  was  not  a member  of  this  Parliament,  although  Plowden 
asserts  that  Fiagh  Mac  Hugh  “ took  his  seat  ” as  representative  for  Glenmalure.  The  late 
Garrett  Byrne,  Esq.,  of  Ballymanus,  in  the  county  of  Wicklow,  who  was  expatriated  in 
1798,  was  probably  the  head  of  the  race  of  Hugh  Duv  O’Byrne,  whose  descendants  were 
rivals  of  the  family  of  Fiagh  Mac  Hugh. — See  “ History  of  the  Rebellion  of  1798, ” by  P, 
O’Kelly,  Esq.,  p.  185.  The  Lord  de  Tabley  descends  from  Melaghlin  Dufi  O’Byrne,  of 
Ballintlea,  in  Wicklow,  who  was  of  the  senior  or  chieftain  branch  of  the  O’Byrnes,  not 
of  the  Gaval-Rannall. 

203  The  Parliament  was  not  finished.— This  Parliament  was  prorogued  on  the  29th  of  May, 
having  passed  the  two  following  acts  : 

1.  An  act  to  attaint  James  Eustace,  Viscount  Baltinglass,  and  others,  which  is  com- 
monly called  the  statute  of  Baltinglass,  and  makes  estates  tail  forfeitable  for  treason, 
and  provides  against  the  fraudulent  conveyances  of  the  attainted. 

2.  An  act  for  the  restitution  in  blood  of  Laurence  Delahide,  whose  ancestor  had  been 
attainted  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  Lord  Deputy  intended  to  suspend  Poyning’s  Act,  that  he  might  the  more  speedily 


86 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


The  Governor  of  the  province  of  Connaught,  with  a number  of 
other  men  of  distinction,  and  of  the  Council  of  Dublin,  went  to 
the  province  of  Connaught,  to  hold,  in  the  first  place,  a session  in 
the  monastery  of  Ennis,  in  the  county  of  Clare.  Here  they  en- 
acted unusual  ordinances — namely,  that  ten  shillings  should  be 
paid  to  the  queen  for  every  quarter  of  land  in  the  country,  as  well 
ecclesiastical  as  lay  lands,  excepting  the  liberties  204  which  they 
themselves  consented  to  grant  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  country; 
and  that,  over  and  above  the  queen’s  rent,  five  shillings  should  be 
paid  to  the  lord  of  Thomond  for  every  quarter  of  land,  free  and 
unfree,205  in  the  whole  country,  except  the  liberties  and  church  land. 


pass  such  laws  as  he  thought  necessary  ; but  some  of  the  Anglo-Irish  members,  who  were 
by  no  means  disposed  to  entrust  the  Lord  Deputy  with  the  power  of  assenting  to  any 
laws  which  might  be  procured  in  Parliament,  overthrew  the  bill  at  the  third  reading. 
'The  second  session  of  this  Parliament  was  on  the  28th  of  April,  1586,  when  it  passed  the 
celebrated  act  “ That  all  conveyances  made,  or  pretended  to  be  made,  by  any  person  at- 
tainted within  thirteen  years  before  the  act,  shall  be  entered  on  record  in  the  Exchequer 
within  a year,  or  be  void.”— See  Spenser's  “ View  of  the  State  of  Ireland,”  Dublin  reprint 
of  1809,  p.  41.  This  Parliament  was  dissolved  on  the  14th  of  May,  1536. 

On  the  15th  of  July,  1585,  Perrott  issued  a commission,  directed  to  Sir  Richard  Bingham, 
Governor  of  Connaught,  the  Earls  of  Thomond  and  Clanricard,  the  Baron  of  Athenry, 
Sir  Turlough  O'Brien,  Sir  Richard  Bourke  Mac  William  Eighfcer,  Sir  Donald  O’Conor 
Sligo,  Sir  Briau  O'Rourke,  Sir  Murrough-na-Doo  O'Flahertie,  and  others,  reciting  : 
“ Where  our  province  of  Connaught  and  Thomond,  through  the  contynuall  dissention 
of  the  lords  and  chief  tans,  challenging  authorities,  cuttings,  and  cessings,  under  pretexte 
of  defending  the  people  under  their  several  rules,  have  run  to  all  errors,  and  understand- 
ing the  good  inclination  of  these  our  subjects,  through  the  good  mynysterie  of  our  truly 
and  well-beloved  Sir  John  Perrott,  our  deputy,  etc.,  to  embrace  all  good  wayes  and 
means  that  may  be  devised  to  conserve  them  in  our  obedience,  and  their  rights  and  titles 
reduced  from  the  uncertaintye  wherein  it  stood,  to  continue  certain  for  ever  here- 
after.” 

The  following  proposals  were  made  by  these  commissioners  : “ The  chieftains  of  coun- 
tries, gentlemen  and  freeholders  of  the  province  of  Connaught,  to  pass  unto  the  Queen  s 
Majestie,  her  heirs  and  successors,  a grant  of  ten  Shillings  English,  or  a marke  Irish, 
upon  every  quarter  of  land  containing  120  acres,  manured  or  to  be  manured,  that  bears 
either  home  or  corne,  in  lieu  and  c nsideration  to  be  discharged  from  oth^r  cess,  tax- 
ation, or  challenge,  excepting  the  rising  out  of  horse  and  foote,  for  the  service  of  the 
Prince  and  state,  such  as  should  be  particularly  agreed  upon,  and  some  certaine  dayes’ 
labour  for  building  and  fortification  for  the  safety  of  the  people  and  kingdome.” — “ Gov- 
ernment of  Ireland  under  !•  ir  John  Perrott,  Knight,”  4to,  London,  1626,  p.  80. 

The  Commissioners  commenced  with  the  county  of  Clare,  or  Thomond  Then  followed 
the  districts  comprehended  within  the  newly-created  county  of  Galway.  “ Indentures  of 
Composition  ” were  entered  into  for  these  territories,  which  were  printed  for  the  first 
time  in  the  appendix  to  Hardiman's  edition  of  O’Flaherty’s  “ Chorographical  Description 
of  lar-Connaught,”  pp.  309-362.  See  also  Cox’s  u Hibernia  Anglicana,”  A d.  1585 

204  Liberties—  Queen  Elizabeth,  in  her  letter  to  the  deputy,  Sir  Henry,  dated  7th  October, 
1577,  says  that  the  Earl  of  Thomond  pretended  an  ancient  freedom  to  the  whole  barony 
of  Ibreckan,  and  desired  the  like  in  the  other  baronies. 

205  ]?ree  am % xmfree.— It  is  not  easy  to  determine  what  the  Four  Masters  intend  here — 
that  is  to  say,  whether  they  spoke  in  reference  to  English  or  Irish  tenure.  The  editor 
therefore  has  translated  the  words  literally,  leaving  the  reader  to  form  his  own  opinion. 


Michael  O'  C levy,  O.S.F. 


87 


They  took  from  the  Earl  of  Thomond  the  district  of  Kinel- 
Fearmaich,206  which  had  been  theretofore  under  tribute  to  his  an- 
cestors, and  gave  the  lordship  of  it  to  the  Baron  of  Inchiquin,297 
Mlirrough,  the  son  of  Mur  rough,  son  of  Dermot  O’Brien.  It  was 
also  ordained  and  agreed  that  Turlough,  the  son  of  Donnell,  son  of 
Conor  O’Brien,  should  have  the  rents  and  court  of  Corcomroe  [the 
castle  of  Dumhach]  in  succession  to  his  father,  to  whom  it  had  been 
first  given  out  of  the  lordship  of  Thomond  by  the  Earl  of  Thomond 
— namely,  Conor,  the  son  of  Donough  O’Brien. 

They  deprived  of  title  and  tribute  every  head  or  chief  of  a sept, 
and  every  other  lord  of  a triocha-ched  throughout  the  whole  country 
(with  the  exception  of  Mac  Namara,  lord  of  the  western  part  of 
the  district  of  Clann-Coilein)  who  did  not  subscribe  his  signature 
to  this  ordinance  of  theirs).  They  acted  a like  ordinance  in  the 
counties  of  Galway,  Roscommon,  Mayo,  and  Sligo. 

FOURTH  SELECTION,  VOL.  VI.,  PP.  2373  TO  2375. 

The  Age  of  Christ  1616.  O’Neill  208  (Hugh,  son  of  Ferdorcha, 
son  of  Con  Bacagh,  son  of  Con,  son  of  Henry,  son  of  Owen),  who 
had  been  baron  from  the  death  of  his  father  to  the  year  when  the 
celebrated  Parliament  was  held  in  Dublin,  1584  \ycu w 1585],  and 
who  was  styled  Earl  of  Tyrone  at  that  Parliament,  and  who  was 
afterwards  styled  O’Neill,  died  at  an  advanced  age,  after  having 

According  to  the  Irish  notion,  it  meant  land  held  by  the  chief’s  relatives  free  of  rent,  and 
was  land  held  by  strangers  (or  natives  who  had  forfeited  their  privileges  by  crime  or 
otherwise),  at  high  rents  and  for  services  of  an  ignoble  nature.  If  they  use  the  term 
with  reference  to  the  English  law,  as  received  in  Thomond  since  the  creation  of  the  earl- 
dom, they  must  have  taken  to  denote  lands  held  in  frank -tenement,  or  knight’s  service, 
which  was  esteemed  the  most  honorable  species  of  tenure  among  the  English  ; and  land 
held  in  pure  villenage. 

206  Kind  Fearmaic.—In  the  description  of  the  county  of  Clare,  written  about  this  period, 
and  now  preserved  in  the  Manuscript  Library  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  E.  ii.  14,  this 
territory  is  called  Troghkeyd  Kynel  Veroge,  or  the  barony  of  Tullagh-I  Dea.  It  comprised 
the  following  parishes,  viz  : Rat  , Kilnamona,  Killinaboy,  Kilvedain,  Kilvily,  Dysart, 
Ruane,  Kilnoe,  Kilkeedy,  Inishcronan.  Prom  this  list  it  is  clear  that  the  whole  of  the 
cantred  of  Kinel-Fermaic  is  included  in  the  present  barony  of  Inchiquin,  except  the  parish 
of  Inishcronan,  and  we  have  sufficient  evidence  to  prove  that  this  parish  did  not  origi- 
nally belong  to  Kinel-Fermaic,  although  attached  to  it  at  this  period,  for  it  was  anciently 
a portion  of  Hy-Caisin,  or  Mac  Namara’s  original  territory,  and  was  a part  of  the  deanery 
of  Ogashin,  according  to  the  “Liber  Regalis  Visitationis.” 

207  The  Baron  of  Inchiquin.—  This  Murrough  who  was  the  fourth  Baron  of  Inchiquin,  at- 
tended the  Parliament  of  1585,  though  the  Four  Masters  take  no  notice  of  him.  The  pro- 
bability is  that  they  mistook  him  for  Turlough,  the  son  of  Teige,  son  of  Conor  O’Brien,  a 
personage  who  appears  to  have  been  called  into  historical  existence  by  an  error  of 
transcription. 

208  Tim  celebrated  Hugh  O'Neill  of  Irish  history. 


cS8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  IretanoC. 


passed  his  life  in  prosperity  and  happiness,  in  valiant  and  illus- 
trious achievements,  in  honor  and  nobleness.  The  place  at  which 
he  died  was  Rome,  and  his  death  occurred  on  the  20th  of  July, 
after  exemplary  penance  for  his  sins,  and  gaining  the  victory  of  the 
world  and  the  devil. 

Although  he  died  far  from  Armagh,  the  burial-place  of  his  an- 
cestors, it  was  a token  that  God  was  pleased  with  his  life  that  the 
Lord  permitted  him  a no  worse  209  burial  place — namely,  Rome, 
the  head  city  of  the  Christians. 

The  person  who  here  died  was  a powerful,  mighty  lord,  en- 
dowed with  wisdom,  subtlety,  and  profundity  of  mind  and  in- 
tellect ; a warlike,  valorous,  predatory,  enterprising  lord  in  defend- 
ing his  religion  and  his  patrimony  against  his  enemies ; a pious  and. 
charitable  lord,  mild  and  gentle  with  his  friends;  fierce  and  stern 
towards  his  enemies,  until  he  had  brought  them  to  submission  and 
obedience  to  his  authority ; a lord  who  had  not  coveted  to  possess 
himself  of  the  illegal  or  excessive  property  of  any  other,  except 
such  as  had  been  hereditary  in  his  ancestors  from  a remote  period  ; 
a lord  with  the  authority  and  praiseworthy  characteristics  of  a 
prince,  who  had  not  suffered  theft  or  robbery,  abduction  or  rape, 
spite  or  animosity,  to  prevail  during  his  reign,  but  had  kept  all 
under  the  authority  of  the  law,  as  was  meet  for  a prince.210 


909  .No  worse— i.e.,  than  Armagh. 

slc  This  is  the  last  historical  fact  recorded  by  the  Four  Masters. 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE , 


THE  POUNDER  OP  ENGLISH  PERIODICAL  LITERATURE. 

“Iam  far  from  wishing  to  depreciate  Addison’s  talents,  but  I am  anxious  to 
do  justice  to  Steele,  who  was,  I think,  upon  the  whole,  a less  artificial  and  more 
original  writer. ’’—William  Hazlitt. 

“As  an  essayist  his  fame  will  be  lasting.” — Dr.  J.  S.  Hart. 


ICHARD  STEELE  was  born  in  Dublin  about  the  year  1675. 


His  father*  was  a counsellor-at-law  and  private  secretary  to 
the  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland.  At  an  early  age  Richard  was  sent 
to  the  Charter  House  School,  London  ; there  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Joseph  Addison,  his  fellow-pupil  and  somewhat  his  senior. 
He  afterwards  joined  Addison  at  Oxford,  having  entered  Merton 
College  in  1692.  Young  Steele,  it  appears,  applied  himself  chiefly 
to  the  study  of  literature,  discovered  an  inclination  to  become  a 
dramatic  author,  and  even  wrote  a comedy. 

Unfortunately,  lie  imbibed  a predilection  for  the  army,  and,  no 
doubt  foolishly  dazzled  by  the  glitter  and  show  of  the  richly-laced 
scarlet  coats  and  white,  waving  plumes  of  the  Horse  Guards,  he 
entered  that  corps  a private,  leaving  Oxford  without  a degree.  This 
displeased  all  his  friends.  It  was  the  starting-point  of  Steele’s 
career  on  the  road  of  folly.  In  fact,  the  rash  step  cost  him  a for- 
tune; for  a wealthy  Irish  relative  in  the  county  of  Wexford,  indig- 
nant at  the  news,  cut  the  name  of  the  reckless  fellow  out  of  his 
will,  regarding  him  as  a disgrace  to  his  family.  But  a total  dis- 
regard for  his  interest  whenever  it  interfered  with  his  inclination 
uniformly  marked  Steele’s  conduct.  It  was  at  the  bottom  of  his 
almost  life-long  troubles,  and  certainly  was  the  cause  of  the  end- 
less pecuniary  embarrassments  in  which  he  was  involved.  His 
agreeable  manners,  however,  and  frank,  open  jovialty  won  him 
many  friends  in  the  army.  He  wras  soon  promoted,  and  as  rollick- 
ing Captain  Richard  Steele  he  was  indeed  considered  a pleasant 
companion. 


1 Steele’s  father  was  an  Englishman. 
89 


90 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Steele  was  no  sooner  an  officer  than  he  began  to  lead  a wild, 
dissipated  life.  He  gave  himself  up  to  every  excess.  But  he  had 
his  better  moments.  Serious  reflection  would  bring  about  repen- 
tance. He  would  deeply  regret  his  reckless  career,  and  would  feel 
strongly  disposed  to  amend.  “ There  is  not,  perhaps,  on  record,” 
writes  one  of  his  biographers,  “a  more  striking  instance  of  a mind, 
strongly  imbued  with  moral  and  religious  feelings,  waging  for  years 
an  unsuccessful  war  with  overbearing  passions  and  corrupt  habits 
than  was  exhibited  in  Steele.  Plunged  in  dissipation  and  intempe- 
rance, he  was  constantly  agonized  by  shame  and  remorse  for  his 
folly  and  his  waste  of  time  and  talent.  In  these  intervals  of  reviv- 
ing virtue  he  composed,  as  a manual  for  his  own  private  use,  ‘ The 
Christian  Hero,’  but  it  failed  to  work  the  desired  reformation,  and 
day  after  day  still  continued  to  be  an  alternation  of  intemperance 
and  compunction.  He  then  determined  to  print  his  work,  im- 
pressed with  the  idea  that  when  his  professions  were  before  the 
public  he  would  be  compelled  to  assimilate  his  practice  to  them. 
The  only  result  of  this  experiment  was  to  excite  the  pity  of  the 
worthy  and  the  derision  of  the  dissolute.”  The  idea  of  a fast-living 
soldier,  who  could  never  resist  the  attractions  of  the  “ Pose  Tavern  ” 
or  the  delight  of  giving  a sound  thrashing  to  the  watch  at  midnight, 
appearing  in  print  as  a religious  character,  seemed  to  have  in  it 
something  irresistibly  comic. 

In  spite  of  Steele’s  follies,  his  friendly  disposition  and  natural 
goodness  of  heart  could  not  be  hidden.  He  now  earnestly  began  to 
use  his  pen  in  another  line ; and  we  are  happy  to  bear  testimony  to 
the  fact  that  his  writings  were  always  conducive  to  virtue.  He  pro- 
duced three  comedies,  “The  Funeral ; or,  Grief  a la  Mode,”  “The 
Tender  Husband  ; or,  The  Accomplished  Fools,”  and  “The  Lying 
Lover,”  which  were  performed  in  1702  and  the  two  following 
years.  The  sober  tone  of  the  last  drew  down  the  hisses  of  a loose 
audience,  and  Steele,  in  disgust,  withdrew  from  dramatic  author- 
ship. To  the  honor  of  this  gifted  Irishman,  let  it  never  be  forgot- 
ten that  he  was  the  first  dramatist  after  the  Restoration  to  introduce 
virtue  on  the  English  stage. 

“Steele’s  ‘Conscious  Lovers,”’ writes  the  learned  Ilallam,  “is 
the  first  comedy  which  can  be  called  moral.”  * 

“ The  comedies  of  Steele,”  says  the  critic  Hazlitt,  “were  the  first 

2 “Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,”  vol.  iii.  Steele  wrote  “The  Conscious 
Lovers  ” in  1722,  It  was  his  last  play. 


Sir  Richard  Steele. 


91 


that  were  written  expressly  with  a view  not  to  imitate  the  manners, 
but  to  reform  the  morals,  of  the  age.”  * 

The  state  of  society  in  England  at  this  period  was  truly  deplora- 
ble. From  about  the  time  of  the  accession  of  William  III.,  of 
Boyne  celebrity,  through  the  reigns  of  the  first  two  Georges,  there 
was  little  change  ; coarseness  and  corruption  ruled  in  places  high 
and  low.  “That  this  brutal,  selfish,  and  vulgar  tone  of  social  inter- 
course,” writes  Prof.  Shaw,  “ was  at  once  a result  and  an  indica- 
tion of  a deep  and  general  deterioration  of  morals  is  more  than 
probable.  It  partly  arose  from  the  unfortunate  mixture  of  politics 
in  the  whole  texture,  so  to  speak,  of  society,  and  may  be  attributed 
partly  to  the  increased  influence  of  the  popular  element  in  our 
political  constitution,  and  in  some  degree  to  that  roughness  and 
ferocity  of  manners  which  a long- continued  period  of  warfare  seldom 
fails  to  communicate  to  a nation.  Gambling  was  exceedingly 
prevalent,  and  drunkenness,  so  long,  alas  ! the  vice  of  Englishmen, 
was  universally  habitual.  Swearing  and  gross  indecency  of  lan- 
guage were  universally  indulged  in.  The  barbarous  and  brutalizing 
sports  of  the  cock-pit  and  the  bull-ring  were  still  pursued.  As  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  intellect  and  the  taste,  they  were  either  abso- 
lutely unknown  or  confined  to  a few,  and  those  few  regarded  as 
pedants  or  as  humorists.”  4 

“ That  general  knowledge,”  says  Dr.  Johnson,  speaking  of  this 
period,  “ which  now  circulates  in  common  talk  was  then  rarely  to 
be  found.  Men  not  professing  learning  were  not  ashamed  of  igno- 
rance, and  in  the  female  world  any  acquaintance  with,  books  was 
distinguished  only  to  be  censured.”  Such  was  English  society  in 
the  days  of  Steele,  or  little  more  than  a century  and  a half  ago  ! 

The  first  to  combat  the  follies  of  that  coarse  age — the  first  who 
manfully  labored  to  raise  up  the  English  nation  from  its  brutal 
ignorance  and  grovelling  condition,  was  the  Irish  Richard  Steele. 
The  year  1709  marks  the  opening  of  a great  era  in  English  litera- 
ture— the  birth  of  the  first  English  periodical  worthy  of  the  name. 
Taking  the  name  of  Isaac  Bicker  staff l Steele  began  The  Tatter 
in  concert  with  Swift,  with  whom  at  this  time  he  was  in  habits  of 
intimacy.  The  first  number  was  issued  on  April  12.  He  began 

* “Lectures  on  the  Comic  English  writers,”  lect.  viii. 

4 “ Outlines  of  English  Literature  ” 

6 His  friend  Swift  had  assumed  that  name  the  preceding  year,  and  had  made  it  famous 
by  several  predictions  which  he  wrote.  Steele  thought  the  popularity  of  The  Tatter 
would  be  increased  by  attaching  such  a name  to  it. 


92 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


this  journal  for  the  good  of  the  people,  and,  as  he  adds,  e‘lor  our 
more  convenient  support  in  the  service  of  the  public.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  many  other  schemes  have  been  proposed  to  me,  as  a friend 
offered  to  show  me  in  a treatise  he  had  written,  which  he  called 
‘ The  Whole  Art  of  Life  ; or,  The  Introduction  to  Great  Men,  illus- 
trated in  a Pack  of  Cards,’  but,  being  a novice  at  all  manner  of 
play,  I declined  the  offer  ! ” 

The  professed  intention  of  The  Tatler,  whose  gay  essays  are  very 
pleasant  and  its  serious  ones  very  instructive,  was  to  expose  the 
false  arts  of  life,  to  pull  off  the  disguises  of  cunning,  vanity,  and 
ostentation,  and  to  recommend  simplicity  in  dress,  discourse,  and 
behavior.  Steele,  above  all  others,  was  the  man  best  qualified  for 
this  sort  of  work.  His  vivacity,  readiness  of  intellect,  profound 
acquaintance  with  life  in  all  its  phases,  and  undeniable  goodness  of 
heart  and  intention  made  him  just  the  person  to  fill  the  office  of 
periodical  censor  of  manners.  The  Tatlers  were  penny  papers, 
published  three  times  a week.  Two  hundred  and  seventy-one  num- 
bers appeared,  after  which  The  Tatler  no  longer  tattled.6  “ It  was 
through  these,”  writes  Prof.  Morley,  “ and  the  daily  Spectators 
which  succeeded  them,  that  the  people  of  England  really  learned  to 
readS  The  few  leaves  of  sound  reason  and  fancy  were  but  a light 
tax  on  uncultivated  powers  of  attention.  Exquisite  grace  and  true 
kindliness,  here  associated  with  familiar  ways  and  common  inci- 
dents of  every-day  life,  gave  many  an  honest  man  fresh  sense  of  the 
best  happiness  that  lies  in  common  duties  honestly  performed.”  8 

About  two  months  after  The  Tatler  ended  Steele  began  The  Spec- 
tator, which  has  become  one  of  the  most  famous  names  in  the  his- 
tory of  British  periodical  literature.  It  is  looked  upon  as  an  Eng- 
lish classic.  In  its  rich  pages  appeared  the  best  things  overwritten 
by  Steele  and  Addison.9  The  seven  inimitable  articles  of  Steele 
which  we  reproduce  in  the  present  volume  are  all  from  The  Spec- 
tator, and  we  think  that  every  reader  of  sound  sense  and  good  taste 
will  thank  ns  for  them. 

6 The  first  number  of  The  Tatler  is  dated  April  12,  1709  ; the  last  number,  January  2 
1711— in  all,  271  numbers,  of  which  Steele  wrote  164. 

7 We  are  glad  to  have  the  testimony  of  this  learned  English  professor  that  from  a na- 
tive of  Ireland,  scarcely  two  hundred  years  ago,  “ the  people  oj  England  really  learned  to 
read." 

8 Morley's  “ English  Writers.-’ 

9 The  first  number  of  The  Spectator  is  dated  March  1,  1711  ; the  last,  Dec.  20,  1714— in  all, 
635  numbers,  240  of  which  were  written  by  Steele,  274  by  Addison,  and  the  rest  by  others. 
The  Spectator  was  issued  daily. 


Sir  Richard  Steele . 


93 


Encouraged  by  the  remarkable  success  of  The  Spectator,  Steele 
started  The  Guardian  in  the  spring  of  1713.  It  was  a daily  journal, 
and  lived  about  eight  months.  Steele  and  Addison  were  the  chief 
contributors.  Steele’s  entry,  however,  into  Parliamentary  life  as 
a member  for  Stockbridge  relaxed  his  efforts  as  an  essayist ; and 
though  he  was  afterwards  concerned  in  other  periodicals,  neither 
his  purse  nor  his  reputation  won  much  by  them.  For  writing  a 
pamphlet  of  a political  character,  entitled  “The  Crisis,”  he  was 
expelled  from  the  House  of  Commons.  But  we  cannot  dwell  at 
length  upon  the  events  of  his  life. 

On  the  accession  of  George  I.,  Steele  again  found  himself  in 
favor.  He  was  knighted  in  1715,  and  received  several  very  lucra- 
tive appointments. 

It  is  truly  lamentable  to  know  that  all  the  distresses  and  difficul- 
ties which  this  distinguished  writer  experienced  in  his  many  re- 
verses of  fortune  had  failed  to  teach  him  prudence.  Towards  the 
end  of  his  life  we  find  him  plunged  in  debt,  and  poverty  even  star- 
ing him  in  the  face.  There  is  little  doubt  but  that  the  retrospect 
of  his  past  improvidence  and  folly,  by  agitating  him  with  remorse 
and  sorrow,  produced  a serious  effect  upon  his  constitution.  Early 
in  1726  he  was  seized  with  a paralytic  stroke,  which  deprived  him 
of  the  free  enjoyment  of  his  intellectual  faculties.  In  these 
unhap py  circumstances  the  once  jovial,  light-hearted  Sir  Richard 
Steele  left  London.  His  pecuniary  distress,  however,  did  not  sub- 
vert his  high  moral  principles,  and  before  leaving  London  he  sur- 
rendered all  his  property  to  his  creditors.  He  retired  to  Wales, 
taking  up  his  residence  near  Caermarthen.  In  this  seclusion,  sup- 
ported by  the  benevolence  of  his  creditors,  he  lingered  for  nearly 
two  years.  He  died  on  September  2,  1729.  According  to  his  own 
desire,  he  was  buried  privately,  and  in  the  quiet  churchyard  of 
Caermarthen  rests  all  that  is  earthly  of  Sir  Richard  Steele. 

Steele  was  twice  married.  His  second  wife  was  the  amiable  and 
accomplished  Miss  Mary  Scurrlock,  a Welsh  lady,  to  whom  he  was 
devotedly  attached.10 

It  is  the  custom  among  a large  class  of  English  critics  to  place 
Addison  as  an  essayist  above  Steele.  Here  we  enter  our  solemn 
protest  against  any  such  arbitrary  classification.  Both  were  great 

10  This  was  the  “ dear  Prue  ” who,  by  preserving  som9  four  hundred  of  her  husband’s 
letters,  has  enabled  us  to  form  truer  ideas  of  the  kind-hearted  Steele  than  we  eould  get 
from  any  other  source. 


94 


The  Prose  a?id  Poetry  of  Ireland 

writers  and  inimitable  essayists,  but  Addison  is  not  necessarily  the 
first  because  his  social  position  was  higher  and  because  he  was  a 
native  of  England.  Yet  it  appears  these  reasons — poor  ones,  in- 
deed—have  induced  many  to  give  him  precedence  to  Steele. 

One  of  the  first  marks  of  true  genius  is  originality.  In  this 
quality  Steele’s  superiority  is  not  to  be  questioned.  Had  Addison 
never  lived,  Steele  would  still  have  been  a famous  essayist,  and  The 
Tatler  and  The  Spectator  would  have  lived,  moved,  and  had  their 
being.  Steele  originated  those  periodicals.  Addison  was  merely  a 
contributor.  He,  indeed,  enriched  Steele’s  Spectators.  Steele  him- 
self did  the  same.  Without  Steele  there  would  have  been  no 
Spectator , and  Addison,  it  is  reasonable  to  conclude,  would  not 
to-day  be  knowTn  as  an  essayist  to  the  literary  w7orld.  “ The  Tatler , 
Spectator , and  Guardian ,”  wTrites  Prof.  Morley,  “were  all  of  them 
Steele’s  journals,  begun  and  ended  by  him,  at  his  sole  discretion. 
In  these  three  he  wrote  510  papers  ; Addison,  369.”  11 

“Steele,”  says  Hazlitt,  “seems  to  have  gone  into  his  closet 
chiefly  to  set  down  what  he  observed  out  of  doors.  Addison  seems 
to  have  spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  study,  and  to  have  spun  out 
and  wire-drawn  the  hints  which  he  borrowed  from  Steele,  or  took 
from  nature,  to  the  utmost.  I am  far  from  wishing  to  depreciate 
Addison’s  talents,  but  I am  anxious  to  do  justice  to  Steele,  who 
was,  I think,  upon  the  whole  a less  artificial  and  more  original  writer. 
The  humorous  descriptions  of  Steele  resemble  loose  skeletons,  or 
fragments  of  a comedy  ; those  of  Addison  are  rather  comments  on 
the  original  text.”  12 

Steele’s  definition  of  a Christian  was,  “ One  who  was  always  a 
benefactor  with  the  mien  of  a receiver.”  Here  he  was  -writing  his 
owrn  character,  “of  which,”  says  a learned  critic,  “the  one  fault 
was  that  he  was  more  ready  to- give  than  to  receive,  more  prompt  to 
ascribe  honors  to  others  than  to  claim  them  for  himself.”  13 

His  wit  was  fresh  and  natural.  It  came  with  no  stinted  flow. 
He  wrote  as  he  lived,  freely  and  carelessly,  scattering  the  coinage  of 
his  brain,  as  he  did  his  guineas,  with  an  unsparing  hand.  All  who 
read  his  papers  or  his  letters  to  Prue  cannot  help  seeing  the  good 
heart  of  the  rattle-brain  shining  out  in  every  line.  We  can  for- 
give, or  at  least  forget,  his  tippling  in  taverns  and  his  unthinking 

31  Morley's  “English  Writers.” 

12  “ Lectures  on  the  English  Comic  Writers,”  lect.  v. 

13  Iklorley’s  “ English  Writers.” 


Sir  Richard  Steele. 


95 


extravagance,  bad  as  these  were,  in  consideration  of  the  loving 
touch  with  which  he  handles  the  foibles  of  his  neighbors,  and  the 
mirth  without  bitterness  that  flows  from  his  gentle  pen.14 

“Steele,”  justly  observes  Dr.  Allibone,  “was  one  of  the  most 
amiable  and  one  of  the  most  improvident  of  men.  His  precepts 
were  far  better  than  his  practice.  Often  sinning,  often  repenting, 
always  good-natured,  and  generally  in  debt,  he  multiplied  troubles 
as  few  men  will,  and  bore  them  better  than  most  men  can.”  15 

"'V:'  • 

THE  SPECTATOR  CLUB. 

“ Ast  alii  sex 

Et  piures  uno  conclamant  ore.” 

— Juv.,  Sat.  vii.  ver.  167. 

“ Six  more,  at  least,  join  their  consenting  voice.” 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a gentleman  of  Worcestershire,  of 
ancient  descent,  a baronet,  his  name  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  His 
great-grandfather  was  inventor  of  that  famous  country-dance  which 
is  called  after  him.  All  who  know  that  shire  are  very  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  parts  and  merits  of  Sir  Roger.  He  is  a gentle- 
man that  is  very  singular  in  his  behavior,  but  his  singularities 
proceed  from  his  good  sense,  and  are  contradictions  to  the  manners 
of  the  world  only  as  he  thinks  the  world  is  in  the  wrong.  How- 
ever, this  humor  creates  him  no  enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with 
sourness  or  obstinacy  ; and  his  being  unconfined  to  modes  and 
forms  makes  him  but  the  readier  and  more  capable  to  please  and 
oblige  all  who  know  him.  When  he  is  in  town,  he  lives  in  Soho 
Square.16  It  is  said  he  keeps  himself  a bachelor  by  reason  he  was 
crossed  in  love  by  a perverse,  beautiful  widow  of  the  next  county  to 
him.  Before  this  disappointment  Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call  a 
fine  gentleman,  had  often  supped  with  my  Lord  Rochester  and  Sir 
George  Etherege,17  fought  a duel  upon  his  first  coming  to  town, 
and  kicked  Bully  Dawson  18  in  a public  coffee-house  for  calling  him 
youngster.  But  being  ill-used  by  the  above-mentioned  widow,  he 
was  very  serious  for  a year  and  a half;  and  though,  his  temper 

14  Collier,  “ History  of  English  Literature.” 

15  “Dictionary  of  Authors.” 

16  At  that  time  the  genteelest  part  of  the  town. 

17  Prominent  personages  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.  and  James  II. 

18  This  fellow  was  a noted  sharper  and  swaggerer  about  town  at  the  time  here  pointed 
out. 


g6 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


being  naturally  jovial,  he  at  last  got  over  it,  he  grew  careless  of 
himself,  and  never  dressed  afterwards.  He  continues  to  wear  a 
coat  and  doublet  of  the  same  cut  that  were  in  fashion  at  the  time 
of  his  repulse,  which,  in  his  merry  humors,  he  tells  us  has  been  in 
and  out  twelve  times  since  he  first  wore  it.  Sir  Roger  is  now  in 
his  fifty-sixth  year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty  ; keeps  a good  house 
both  in  town  and  country  ; a great  lover  of  mankind ; but  there  is 
such  a mirthful  cast  in  his  behavior  that  he  is  rather  beloved  than 
esteemed. 

His  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants  look  satisfied,  all  the  young 
women  profess  love  to  him,  and  the  young  men  are  glad  of  his 
company.  When  he  comes  into  a house,  he  calls  the  servants  by 
their  names,  and  talks  all  the  way  up- stairs  to  a visit.  I must  not 
omit  that  Sir  Roger  is  a justice  of  the  quorum;  19  that  he  fills  the 
chair  at  a quarter  session  with  great  abilities,  and,  three  months 
ago,  gained  universal  applause  by  explaining  a passage  in  the 
Game  Act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority  among  us  is  another 
bachelor,  who  is  a member  of  the  Inner  Temple,20  a man  of  great 
probity,  wit,  and  understanding ; but  he  has  chosen  his  place  of 
residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  of  an  old  humorous  father 
than  in  pursuit  of  his  own  inclinations.  He  was  placed  there  to 
study  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  is  the  most  learned  of  any  of  the 
house  in  those  of  the  stage.  Aristotle  and  Longinus  are  much 
better  understood  by  him  than  Littleton  or  Coke.21  The  father 
sends  up  every  post  questions  relating  to  marriage  articles,  leases, 
and  tenures  in  the  neighborhood,  all  which  questions  he  agrees 
with  an  attorney  to  answer  and  take  care  of  in  the  lump.  He  is 
studying  the  passions  themselves  when  he  should  be  enquiring  into 
the  debates  among  men  which  arise  from  them.  He  knows  the 
argument  of  each  of  the  orations  of  Demosthenes  and  Tully,  but 
not  one  case  in  the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No  one  ever  took 
him  for  a fool,  but  none,  except  his  intimate  friends,  know  he  has 


19  The  term  quorum  arose  from  the  words  used  in  the  commission  issued  to  certain 
special  justices  formerly  appointed  in  England  to  enquire  of  and  determine  felonies 
and  other  misdemeanors,  in  which  number  it  was  directed  that  some  particular  justices, 
or  one  of  them,  should  be  always  included,  and  that  no  business  should  be  done  without 
their  presence,  the  commission  commencing,  Quorum  aliquem  vestrum,  etc. — Burrill 

20  Inner  Temple  is  o e of  the  Inns  of  court  (or  colleges)  in  which  students  of  law  reside 
and  are  instructed.—  Wharton. 

21  Littleton’s  “ Treatise  on  Tenures”  has  been  annotated  by  Coke. 


Sir  Richard  Steele. 


97 


a great  deal  of  wit.  This  turn  makes  him  at  once  both  disin- 
terested and  agreeable.  As  few  of  his  thoughts  are  drawn  from 
business,  they  are  most  of  them  fit  for  conversation.  His  taste  of 
books  is  a little  too  just  for  the  age  he  lives  in  ; he  has  read  all,  but 
approves  of  very  few.  His  familiarity  with  the  customs,  manners, 
actions,  and  writings  of  the  ancients  makes  him  a very  delicate 
observer  of  what  occurs  to  him  in  the  present  world.  He  is  an 
excellent  critic,  and  the  time  of  the  play  is  his  hour  of  business. 
Exactly  at  five  he  passes  through  New  Inn,  crosses  through  Eussel 
Court,  and  takes  a turn  at  Will’s  till  the  play  begins;  he  has  his 
shoes  rubbed  and  his  periwig  powdered  at  the  barber’s  as  you  go 
into  the  Eose.  It  is  for  the  good  of  the  audience  when  he  is  at  the 
play,  for  the  actors  have  an  ambition  to  please  him. 

The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  a mer- 
chant of  great  eminence  in  the  city  of  London ; a person  of  indefa- 
tigable industry,  strong  reason,  and  great  experience.  His  notions 
of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  and  (as  every  rich  man  has  usually 
some  sly  way  of  jesting,  which  would  make  no  great  figure  were  he 
not  a rich  man)  he  calls  the  sea  the  British  Common.  He  is 
acquainted  with  commerce  in  all  its  parts,  and  will  tell  you  that  it 
is  a stupid  and  barbarous  way  to  extend  dominion  by  arms ; for 
true  power  is  to  be  got  by  arts  and  industry.  He  will  often  argue 
that  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were  well  cultivated,  we  should  gain 
from  one  nation ; and  if  another,  from  another.  I have  heard  him 
prove  that  diligence  makes  more  lasting  acquisitions  than  valor, 
and  that  sloth  has  ruined  more  nations  than  the  sword.  He 
abounds  in  several  frugal  maxims,  among  which  the  greatest 
favorite  is,  “ A penny  saved  is  a penny  got.”  A general  trader  of 
good  sense  is  pleasanter  company  than  a general  scholar  ; and  Sir 
Andrew  having  a natural  unaffected  eloquence,  the  perspicuity  of 
his  discourse  gives  the  same  pleasure  that  wit  would  in  another 
man.  He  has  made  his  fortune  himself,  and  says  that  England 
may  be  richer  than  other  kingdoms  by  as  plain  methods  as  he 
himself  is  richer  than  other  men ; though  at  the  same  time  I can 
say  this  of  him,  that  there  is  not  a point  in  the  compass  but  blows 
home  a ship  in  which  he  is  an  owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  club-room  sits  Captain  Sentry,  a gen- 
tleman of  great  courage,  good  understanding,  but  invincible  mo- 
desty. He  is  one  of  those  that  deserve  very  well,  but  are  very 
awkward  at  putting  their  talents  within  the  observation  of  such  as 


q8  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

should  take  notice  of  them.  lie  was  some  years  a captain,  and 
behaved  himself  with  great  gallantry  in  several  engagements  and  at 
several  sieges ; but,  having  a small  estate  of  his  own,  and  being  next 
heir  to  Sir  Roger,  he  has  quitted  a way  of  life  in  which  no  man 
can  rise  suitably  to  his  merit  who  is  not  something  of  a courtier  as 
well  as  a soldier.  I have  heard  him  often  lament  that  in  a pro- 
fession where  merit  is  placed  in  so  conspicuous  a view  impudence 
should  get  the  better  of  modesty.  When  he  has  talked  to  this 
purpose,  I never  heard  him  make  a sour  expression,  but  frankly 
confess  that  he  left  the  world  because  he  was  not  fit  for  it.  A 
strict  honesty  and  an  even,  regular  behavior  are  in  themselves 
(Obstacles  to  him,  that  must  press  through  crowds  who  endeavor  at 
the  same  end  with  himself — the  favor  of  a commander.  He  will, 
Jiowever,  in  his  way  of  talk,  excuse  generals  for  not  disposing 
according  to  men’s  desert,  or  enquiring  into  it;  for,  says  he,  that 
great  man  who  has  a mind  to  help  me  has  as  many  to  break 
through  to  come  at  me  as  I have  to  come  at  him;  therefore  he 
will  conclude  that  a man  who  would  make  a figure,  especially  in  a 
military  way,  must  get  over  all  false  modesty,  and  assist  his  patron 
against  the  importunity  of  other  pretenders  by  a proper  assurance 
in  his  own  vindication.  He  says  it  is  a civil  cowardice  to  be  back- 
ward in  asserting  what  you  ought  to  expect,  as  it  is  a military  fear 
to  be  slow  in  attacking  when  it  is  your  duty.  With  this  candor 
does  the  gentleman  speak  of  himself  and  others.  The  same  frank- 
ness runs  through  all  his  conversation.  The  military  part  of  his 
life  has  furnished  him  with  many  adventures,  in  the  relation  of 
which  he  is  very  agreeable  to  the  company  ; for  he  is  never  over- 
bearing, though  accustomed  to  command  men  in  the  utmost  degree 
below  him  ; nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from  a habit  of  obeying  men 
highly  above  him. 

But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a set  of  humorists,  unac- 
quainted with  the  gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the  age,  we  have 
among  us  the  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,  a gentleman  who,  according 
to  his  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his  life  ; but  having  evei 
been  very  careful  of  his  person,  and  always  had  a very  easy  fortune, 
time  has  made  but  very  little  impression,  either  by  wrinkles  on  his 
forehead  or  traces  in  his  brain.  His  person  is  well  turned  and  of 
a good  height.  He  is  very  ready  at  that  sort  of  discourse  with 
which  men  usually  entertain  women.  He  has  all  his  life  dressed 
very  well,  and  remembers  habits  as  others  do  men.  He  can  smile 


Sir  Richard  Steele. 


99 


when  one  speaks  to  him,  and  laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history 
of  every  mode,  and  can  inform  you  from  which  of  the  French  king’s 
wenches  our  wives  and  daughters  had  this  manner  of  curling  their 
hair,  that  way  of  placing  their  hoods ; whose  frailty  was  covered 
by  such  a sort  of  petticoat ; and  whose  vanity  to  show  her  foot 
made  that  part  of  the  dress  so  short  in  such  a year.  In  a word, 
all  his  conversation  and  knowledge  has  been  in  the  female  world. 
As  other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice  to  you  what  such  a minister 
said  upon  such  and  such  an  occasion,  he  will  tell  you,  when  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth 22  danced  at  court,  such  a woman  was  then 
smitten,  another  was  taken  with  him  at  the  head  of  his  troop  in 
the  park.  In  all  these  important  relations,  he  has  ever  about  the 
same  time  received  a kind  glance  or  a blow  of  a fan  from  some 
celebrated  beauty,  mother  of  the  present  Lord  Such-a-one.  This 
way  of  talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the  conversation  among 
us  of  a more  sedate  turn  ; and  I find  there  is  not  one  of  the  com- 
pany but  myself — who  rarely  speak  at  all — but  speaks  of  him  as  of 
that  sort  of  man  who  is  usually  called  a well  bred,  fine  gentleman. 
To  conclude  his  character,  where  women  are  not  concerned  he  is  an 
honest,  worthy  man. 

I cannot  tell  whether  I am  to  account  him  whom  I am  next  to 
speak  of  as  one  of  our  company,  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom ; but 
when  he  does,,  it  adds  to  every  man  else  a new  enjoyment  of  himself. 
He  is  a clergyman,  a very  philosophic  man,  of  general  learning, 
great  sanctity  of  life,  and  the  most  exact  good  breeding.  He  has 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a very  weak  constitution,  and,  conse- 
quently, cannot  accept  of  such  cares  and  business  as  preferments  in 
his  function  would  oblige  him  to ; he  is  therefore,  among  divines, 
what  a chamber-counsellor  is  among  lawyers.  The  probity  of  his 
mind  and  the  integrity  of  his  life  create  him  followers,  as  being 
eloquent  or  loud  advances  others.  He  seldom  introduces  the  subject 
he  speaks  upon  ; but  we  are  so  far  gone  in  years  that  he  observes, 
when  he  is  among  us,  an  earnestness  to  have  him  fall  on  some 
divine  topic,  which  he  always  treats  with  much  authority,  as  one 
who  has  no  interest  in  this  world,  as  one  who  is  hastening  to  the 
object  of  all  his  wishes,  and  conceives  hope  from  his  decays  and 
infirmities.  These  are  my  ordinary  companions. 


22  Natural  son  of  Charles  the  Second.  He  was  beheaded  at  London  in  1685. 


IOO  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

L.ETITIA  AND  DAPHNE  ; OR,  THE  TRUE  CHARMS  OF  A WOMAN. 

A friend  of  mine  has  two  daughters,  whom  I will  call  Laetitia 
and  Daphne  ; the  former  is  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  of  the  age 
in  which  she  lives,  the  latter  no  way  remarkable  for  any  charms  in 
her  person.  Upon  this  one  circumstance  of  their  outward  form 
the  good  and  ill  of  their  lives  seem  to  turn.  Laetitia  has  not,  from 
her  very  childhood,  heard  anything  else  but  commendations  of  her 
features  and  complexion,  by  which  means  she  is  no  other  than 
nature  made  her — a very  beautiful  outside.  The  consciousness  of 
her  charms  has  rendered  her  insupportably  vain  and  insolent 
towards  all  who  have  to  do  with  her.  Daphne,  who  was  almost 
twenty  before  one  civil  thing  had  ever  been  said  to  her,  found  her- 
self obliged  to  acquire  some  accomplishments  to  make  up  for  the 
want  of  those  attractions  which  she  saw  in  her  sister.  Poor  Daphne 
was  seldom  submitted  to  in  a debate  wherein  she  was  concerned ; 
her  discourse  had  nothing  to  recommend  it  but  the  good  sense  of 
it,  and  she  was  always  under  a necessity  to  have  very  well  consid- 
ered what  she  was  to  say  before  she  uttered  it ; while  Laetitia  was 
listened  to  with  partiality,  and  approbation  sat  in  the  countenances 
of  those  she  conversed  with,  before  she  communicated  what  she  had 
to  say.  These  causes  have  produced  suitable  effects,  and  Laetitia  is 
as  insipid  a companion  as  Daphne  is  an  agreeable  one.  Laetitia^ 
confident  of  favor,  has  studied  no  arts  to  please ; Daphne,  despair- 
ing of  any  inclination  towards  her  person,  has  depended  only  on 
her  merit.  Laetitia  has  always  something  in  her  air  that  is  sullen, 
grave,  and  disconsolate.  Daphne  has  a countenance  that  appears 
cheerful,  open,  and  unconcerned.  A young  gentleman  saw  Laetitia 
this  winter  at  a play,  and  became  her  captive.  His  fortune  was 
such  that  he  wanted  very  little  introduction  to  speak  his  sentiments 
to  her  father.  The  lover  was  admitted  with  the  utmost  freedom 
into  the  family,  where  a constrained  behavior,  severe  looks,  and 
distant  civilities  were  the  highest  favors  he  could  obtain  of  Laetitia; 
while  Daphne  used  him  with  the  good-humor,  familiarity,  and 
innocence  of  a sister,  insomuch  that  he  would  often  say  to  her, 
“Dear  Daphne,  were  you  but  as  handsome  as  Laetitia!”  She 
received  such  language  with  that  ingenuous  and  pleasing  mirth 
which  is  natural  to  a woman  without  design.  He  still  sighed  in 
vain  for  Laetitia,  but  found  certain  relief  in  the  agreeable  conver- 
sation of  Daphne.  At  length,  heartily  tired  with  the  haughty  im- 


Sir  Richard  Steele . 


IOI 


pertinence  of  Loetitia,  and  charmed  with  the  repeated  instances  of 
good-humor  he  had  observed  in  Daphne,  he  one  day  told  the  latter 
that  he  had  something  to  say  to  her  he  hoped  she  would  be  pleased 
with.  “ Faith,  Daphne,”  continued  he,  “ I am  in  love  with  you, 
and  despise  your  sister  sincerely.”  The  manner  of  his  declaring 
himself  gave  his  mistress  occasion  for  a very  hearty  laughter.  ‘ No, ” 
says  he,  “I  knew  you  would  laugh  at  me,  but  I will  ask  your 
father.”  He  did  so;  the  father  received  his  intelligence  with  no 
less  joy  than  surprise,  and  was  very  glad  he  had  now  no  care  left 
but  for  his  beauty,  which  he  thought  he  could  carry  to  market  at 
his  leisure.  I do  not  know  anything  that  has  pleased  me  so  much 
a great  while  as  this  conquest  of  my  friend  Daphne’s.  All  her 
acquaintance  congratulated  her  upon  her  chance-medley,  and  laugh 
at  that  premeditating  murderer,  her  sister.  As  it  is  an  argument 
of  a light  mind  to  think  the  worse  of  ourselves  for  the  imperfec- 
tions of  our  persons,  it  is  equally  below  us  to  value  ourselves  upon 
the  advantages  of  them.  The  female  world  seem  to  be  almost  in- 
corrigibly gone  astray  in  this  particular ; for  which  reason  I shall 
recommend  the  following  extract  out  of  a friend’s  letter 23  to  the 
professed  beauties,  who  are  a people  almost  as  unsufferable  as  the 
professed  wits : 

“ Monsieur  St.  Evremond  has  concluded  one  of  his  essays  with 
affirming  that  the  last  sighs  of  a handsome  woman  are  not  so 
much  for  the  loss  of  her  life  as  of  her  beauty.  Perhaps  this  rail- 
lery is  pursued  too  far,  yet  it  is  turned  upon  a very  obvious  remark, 
that  woman’s  strongest  passion  is  for  her  own  beauty,  and  that  she 
values  it  as  her  favorite  distinction.  From  hence  it  is  that  all  arts 
which  pretend  to  improve  it  or  preserve  it  meet  with  so  general  a 
reception  among  the  sex.  To  say  nothing  of  many  false  helps  and 
contraband  wares  of  beauty  which  are  daily  vended  in  this  great 
mart,  there  is  not  a maiden  gentlewoman  of  a good  family,  in  any 
county  of  South  Britain,  who  has  not  heard  of  the  virtues  of  May- 
dew,  or  is  unfurnished  with  some  recipe  or  other  in  favor  of  her 
complexion ; and  I have  known  a physician  of  learning  and  sense, 
after  eight  years’  study  in  the  university,  and  a course  of  travels 
into  most  countries  of  Europe,  owe  the  first  raising  of  his  fortunes 
to  a cosmetic  wash. 

“ This  has  given  me  occasion  to  consider  how  so  universal  a dis- 
position in  womankind,  which  springs  from  a laudable  motive — the 

23  Mr.  John  Hughes. 


102 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


desire  of  pleasing — and  proceeds  upon  an  opinion,  not  altogether 
groundless,  that  nature  may  be  helped  by  art,  may  be  turned  to 
their  advantage.  And,  methinks,  it  would  be  an  acceptable  service 
to  take  them  out  of  the  hands  of  quacks  and  pretenders,  and  to 
prevent  their  imposing  upon  themselves,  by  discovering  to  them 
the  true  secret  and  art  of  improving  beauty. 

61  In  order  to  this,  before  I touch  upon  it  directly,  it  will  be  nec- 
essary to  lay  down  a few  preliminary  maxims,  viz. : 

“ That  no  woman  can  be  handsome  by  the  force  of  features  alone, 
any  more  than  she  can  be  witty  only  by  the  help  of  speech  ; 

“ That  pride  destroys  all  symmetry  and  grace,  and  affectation  is  a 
more  terrible  enemy  to  fine  faces  than  the  small-pox ; 

“ That  no  woman  is  capable  of  being  beautiful  who  is  not  incapa- 
ble of  being  false  ; 

“ And  that  what  would  be  odious  in  a friend  is  deformity  in  a 
mistress. 

“ From  these  few  principles,  thus  laid  down,  it  will  be  easy  to 
prove  that  the  true  art  of  assisting  beauty  consists  in  embellishing 
the  whole  person  by  the  proper  ornaments  of  virtuous  and  commend- 
able qualities.  By  this  help  alone  it  is  that  those  who  are  the  fa- 
vorite work  of  nature — or,  as  Mr.  Dry  den  expresses  it,  the  porcelain 
clay  of  humankind — become  animated,  and  are  in  a capacity  of  ex- 
erting their  charms  ; and  those  who  seem  to  have  been  neglected 
by  her,  like  models  wrought  in  haste,  are  capable  in  a great  mea- 
sure of  finishing  what  she  has  left  imperfect. 

“ It  is,  methinks,  a low  and  degrading  idea  of  that  sex,  which  was 
created  to  refine  the  joys  and  soften  the  cares  of  humanity  by  the 
most  agreeable  participation,  to  consider  them  merely  as  objects  of 
sight.  This  is  abridging  them  of  their  natural  extent  of  power  to 
put  them  upon  a level  with  their  picture  at  Kneller’s.  How  much 
nobler  is  the  contemplation  of  beauty,  heightened  by  virtue,  and 
commanding  our  esteem  and  love,  while  it  draws  our  observation  ! 
How  faint  and  spiritless  are  the  charms  of  a coquette  when  com- 
pared with  the  real  loveliness  of  Sophronia’s  innocence,  piety,  good- 
jiumor,  and  truth — virtues  which  add  a new  softness  to  her  sex, 
and  even  beautify  her  beauty  ! That  agreeableness,  which  must 
otherwise  have  appeared  no  longer  in  the  modest  virgin,  is  now 
preserved  in  the  tender  mother,  the  prudent  friend,  and  the  faith- 
ful wife.  Colors  artfully  spread  upon  canvas  may  entertain  the 
eye,  but  not  affect  the  heart ; and  she  who  takes  no  care  to  add  to 


Sir  Richard  Steele. 


103 

the  natural  graces  of  her  person  any  excelling  qualities  may  be  al- 
lowed still  to  amuse  as  a picture,  but  not  to  triumph  as  a beauty. 

“ When  Adam  is  introduced  by  Milton,  describing  Eve  in  Para- 
dise, and  relating  to  the  angel  the  impressions  he  felt  upon  seeing 
her  at  her  first  creation,  he  does  not  represent  her,  like  a Grecian 
Venus,  by  her  shape  or  features ; but  by  the  lustre  of  her  mind, 
which  shone  in  them,  and  gave  them  their  power  of  charming. 

“ ‘ Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  Heav’n  in  her  eye 
In  all  her  gestures,  dignity  and  love  V 

“ Without  this  irradiating  power,  the  proudest  fair  one  ought  to 
know,  whatever  her  glass  may  tell  her  to  the  contrary,  that;  her 
most  perfect  features  are  uninformed  and  dead. 

“ I cannot  better  close  this  moral  than  by  a short  epitaph  writ- 
ten by  Ben  Jonson,  with  a spirit  which  nothing  could  inspire  but 
such  an  object  as  I have  been  describing : 

‘ ‘Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  virtue  as  could  die, 

Which  when  alive  did  vigor  give 
To  as  much  beauty  as  could  live.’  ” 


AGE. 

Of  all  the  impertinent  wishes  which  we  hear  expressed  in  conver- 
sation, there  is  not  one  more  unworthy  a gentlemen,  or  a man  of 
liberal  education,  than  that  of  wishing  one’s  self  younger.  It  is  a 
certain  sign  of  a foolish  or  a dissolute  mind,  if  we  want  our  youth 
again  only  for  the  strength  of  bones  and  sinews  which  we  once 
were  masters  of  ; it  is  as  absurd  in  an  old  man  to  wish  for  the 
strength  of  a youth  as  it  would  be  in  a young  man  to  wish  for  the 
strength  of  a bull  or  a horse.  These  wishes  are  both  equally  out  of 
nature,  which  should  direct  in  all  things  that  are  not  contradictory 
to  justice,  law,  and  reason. 

Age,  in  a virtuous  person  of  either  sex,  carries  in  it  ah  authority 
which  makes  it  preferable  to  all  the  pleasures  of  youth  ; if  to  be 
saluted,  attended,  or  consulted  with  deference  are  instances  of  plea- 
sure, they  are  such  as  never  fail  a virtuous  old  age.  In  the  enume- 
ration of  the  imperfections  and  advantages  of  the  younger  and 
later  years  of  man,  they  are  so  near  in  their  condition  that  me- 


104 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


thinks  it  should  be  incredible  we  see  so  little  commerce  of  kindness 
between  them.  If  we  consider  youth  and  age  with  Tully , regarding 
the  affinity  to  death,  youth  has  many  more  chances  to  be  nearer  it  than 
age.  What  youth  can  say  more  than  an  old  man,  “ He  shall  live  till 
night  ” ? Youth  catches  distempers  more  easily,  its  sickness  is  more 
violent,  and  its  recovery  more  doubtful.  The  youth,  indeed,  hopes 
for  many  more  days ; so  cannot  the  old  man.  The  youth’s  hopes 
are  ill-grounded  ; for  what  is  more  foolish  than  to  place  any  confi- 
dence upon  an  uncertainty  ? But  the  old  man  has  not  room  so 
much  as  for  hope ; he  is  still  happier  than  the  youth  ; he  has 
already  enjoyed  what  the  other  does  but  hope  for  ; one  wishes  to 
live  long,  the  other  has  lived  long.  But,  alas  ! is  there  anything  in 
human  life  the  duration  of  which  can  be  called  long  ? There  is 
nothing,  which  must  end,  to  be  valued  for  its  continuance.  If 
hours,  days,  months,  and  years  pass  away,  it  is  no  matter  what 
hour,  what  day,  what  month,  or  what  year  we  die.  The  applause 
of  a good  actor  is  due  to  him  at  whatever  scene  of  the  play  he 
makes  his  exit.  It  is  thus  in  the  life  of  a man  of  sense  ; a short 
life  is  sufficient  to  manifest  himself  a man  of  honor  and  virtue. 
When  he  ceases  to  be  such,  he  has  lived  too  long  ; and  while  he  is 
such  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  him  how  long  he  shall  be  so,  pro- 
vided he  is  so  to  his  life’s  end. 


DEFINITION  OF  A FINE  GENTLEMAN. 

“ Omnis  Aristippum  decuit  color,  et  status,  et  res.” 

^Hor.,  1 Ep.  xvii.  23. 

“ All  fortune  fitted  Aristippus  well.” 

— Creech. 

The  generality  (the  fair  sex  especially)  have  very  false  impres- 
sions of  what  should  be  intended  when  they  say  a “fine  gentle- 
man.” I have  revolved  this  subject  in  my  thoughts,  and  settled, 

. as  it  were,  an  idea  of  that  character  in  my  own  imagination. 

Mo  man  ought  to  have  the  esteem  of  the  rest  of  the  world  for 
any  actions  which  are  disagreeable  to  those  maxims  which  prevail 
as  the  standards  of  behavior  in  the  country  wherein  he  lives. 
What  is  opposite  to  the  eternal  rules  of  reason  and  good  sense  must 
be  excluded  from  any  place  in  the  carriage  of  a well-bred  man. 
When  a gentleman  speaks  coarsely,  he  has  dressed  himself  clean  to 
no  purpose.  The  clothing  of  our  minds  certainly  ought  to  be 


Sir  Richard  Steele . 


105 


regarded  before  that  of  our  bodies.  To  betray  in  a man’s  talk  a 
corrupt  imagination  is  a much  greater  offence  against  the  conver- 
sation of  gentlemen  than  any  negligence  of  dress  imaginable.  But 
this  sense  of  the  matter  is  so  far  from  being  received  among  people 
even  of  condition  that  Vocifer  even  passes  for  a fine  gentleman. 
He  is  loud,  haughty,  gentle,  soft,  lewd,  and  obsequious  by  turns, 
just  as  a little  understanding  and  great  impudence  prompt  him  at 
the  present  moment.  He  passes  among  the  silly  part  of  our  women 
for  a man  of  wit,  because  he  is  generally  in  doubt.  He  contradicts 
with  a shrug,  and  confutes  with  a certain  sufficiency,  in  professing 
such  and  such  a thing  is  above  his  capacity.  What  makes  his 
character  the  pleasanter  is  that  he  is  a professed  deluder  of  women, 
and  because  the  empty  coxcomb  has  no  regard  to  anything  that  is 
of  itself  sacred  and  inviolable.  I have  heard  an  unmarried  lady  of 
fortune  say,  “It  is  pity  so  fine  a gentleman  as  Vocifer  is  so  great 
an  atheist.”  The  crowds  of  such  inconsiderable  creatures  that 
infest  all  places  of  assembling  every  reader  will  have  in  his  eye 
!rom  his  own  observation ; but  would  it  not  be  worth  considering 
what  sort  of  figure  a man  who  formed  himself  upon  those  principles 
among  us  which  are  agreeable  to  the  dictates  of  honor  and  religion 
would  make  in  the  familiar  and  ordinary  occurrences  of  life  ? 

I hardly  have  observed  any  one  fill  his  several  duties  of  life  better 
than  Ignotus.  All  the  under  parts  of  his  behavior,  and  such  as 
are  exposed  to  common  observation,  have  their  rise  in  him  from 
great  and  noble  motives.  A firm  and  unshaken  expectation  of 
another  life  makes  him  become  this ; humanity  and  good  nature, 
fortified  by  the  sense  of  virtue,  has  the  same  effect  upon  him  as 
the  neglect  of  all  goodness  has  upon  many  others.  Being  firmly 
established  in  all  matters  of  importance,  that  certain  inattention 
which  makes  men’s  actions  look  easy  appears  in  him  with  greater 
beauty ; by  a thorough  contempt  of  little  excellences,  he  is  per- 
fectly master  of  them.  This  temper  of  mind  leaves  him  under  no 
necessity  of  studying  his  air,  and  he  has  this  peculiar  distinction, 
that  his  negligence  is  unaffected. 

He  that  can  work  himself  into  a pleasure  in  considering  this 
being  as  an  uncertain  one,  and  think  to  reap  an  advantage  by  its 
discontinuance,  is  in  a fair  way  of  doing  all  things  with  a graceful 
unconcern  and  a gentleman-like  ease.  Such  a one  does  not  behold 
his  life  as  a short,  transient,  perplexing  state,  made  up  of  trifling 
pleasures  and  great  anxieties,  but  sees  it  in  quite  another  light ; his 


106  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

griefs  are  momentary  and  his  joys  immortal.  Reflection  upon 
death  is  not  a gloomy  and  sad  thought  of  resigning  everything  that 
he  delights  in,  but  it  is  a short  night  followed  by  an  endless  day. 
What  I would  here  contend  for  is  that  the  more  virtuous  the  man 
is,  the  nearer  he  will  naturally  be  to  the  character  of  genteel  and 
agreeable.  A man  whose  fortune  is  plentiful  shows  an  ease  in  his 
countenance  and  confidence  in  his  behavior  which  he  that  is 
under  wants  and  difficulties  cannot  assume.  It  is  thus  with  the 
state  of  the  mind ; he  that  governs  his  thoughts  with  the  everlasting 
rules  of  reason  and  sense  must  have  something  so  inexpressibly 
graceful  in  his  words  and  actions  that  every  circumstance  must 
become  him.  The  change  of  persons  or  things  around  him  does  not 
at  all  alter  his  situation,  but  he  looks  disinterested  in  the  occur- 
rences with  which  others  are  distracted,  because  the  greatest  pur- 
pose of  his  life  is  to  maintain  an  indifference  both  to  it  and  all  its 
enjoyments.  In  a word,  to  be  a fine  gentleman  is  to  be  a generous 
and  a brave  man.  What  can  make  a man  so  much  in  constant 
good  humor,  and  shine,  as  we  call  it,  than  to  be  supported  by  what 
can  never  fail  him,  and  to  believe  that  whatever  happens  to  him 
was  the  best  thing  that  could  possibly  befall  him,  or  else  He  on 
whom  it  depends  would  not  have  permitted  it  to  have  befallen  him 
at  all  ! 

SCANDAL-BEARERS  BAD  HEARTED. 

“ Quantum  a rerum  turpitudine  abes,  tantum  te  a verborum  libertate  sej ungas  ” 

— Tull. 

“ We  should  be  as  careful  of  our  words  as  our  actions,  and  as  far  from  speaking 
as  from  doing  ill.” 

It  is  a certain  sign  of  an  ill  heart  to  be  inclined  to  defamation. 
They  who  are  harmless  and  innocent  can  have  no  gratification  that 
way ; but  it  ever  arises  from  a neglect  of  what  is  laudable  in  a 
man’s  self  and  an  impatience  of  seeing  it  in  another.  Else  why 
should  virtue  provoke  ? Why  should  beauty  displease  in  such  a 
degree  that  a man  given  to  scandal  never  lets  the  mention  of  either 
pass  by  him  without  offering  something  to  the  diminution  of  it  ? 
A lady  the  other  day  at  a visit,  being  attacked  somewhat  rudely  by 
one  whose  own  character  has  been  very  roughly  treated,  answered 
a great  deal  of  heat  and  intemperance  very  calmly  : “ Good  madam, 
spare  me,  who  am  none  of  your  match ; I speak  ill  of  nobody,  and 


Sir  Richard  Steele. 


107 


it  is  a new  thing  to  me  to  be  spoken  ill  of.”  Little  minds  think 
fame  consists  in  the  number  of  votes  they  have  on  their  side  among 
the  multitude,  whereas  it  is  really  the  inseparable  follower  of  good 
and  worthy  actions.  Fame  is  as  natural  a follower  of  merit  as 
shadow  is  of  a body.  It  is  true,  when  crowds  press  upon  you,  this 
shadow  cannot  be  seen,  but  when  they  separate  from  around  you 
it  will  again  appear.  The  lazy,  the  idle,  and  the  froward  are  the 
persons  who  are  most  pleased  with  the  little  tales  which  pass  about 
the  town  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  Were  it  not 
for  the  pleasure  of  speaking  ill,  there  are  numbers  of  people  who 
are  too  lazy  to  go  out  of  their  own  houses,  and  too  ill-natured  to 
open  their  lips  in  conversation.  It  was  not  a little  diverting  the 
other  day  to  observe  a lady  reading  a post-letter,  and  at  these  words, 
“ After  all  her  airs,  he  has  heard  some  story  or  other,  and  the 
match  is  broke  off,”  give  orders  in  the  midst  of  her  reading,  Put  to 
the  horses.  That  a young  woman  of  merit  has  missed  an  advanta- 
geous settlement  was  news  not  to  be  delayed,  lest  somebody  else 
should  have  given  her  malicious  acquaintance  that  satisfaction 
before  her.  The  unwillingness  to  receive  good  tidings  is  a quality 
as  inseparable  from  a scandal-bearer  as  the  readiness  to  divulge 
bad.  But,  alas  ! how  wretchedly  low  and  contemptible  is  that  state 
of  mind  that  cannot  be  pleased  but  by  what  is  the  subject  of 
lamentation.  This  temper  has  ever  been  in  the  highest  degree 
odious  to  gallant  spirits.  The  Persian  soldier  who  was  heard 
reviling  Alexander  the  Great  was  well  admonished  by  his  officer  : 
“ Sir,  you  are  paid  to  fight  against  Alexander,  and  not  to  rail  at 
him.” 

Cicero,  in  one  of  his  pleadings,  defending  his  client  from  general 
scandal,  says  very  handsomely,  and  with  much  reason : “ There  are 
many  who  have  particular  engagements  to  the  prosecutor ; there 
are  many  who  are  known  to  have  ill-will  to  him  for  whom  I appear; 
there  are  many  who  are  naturally  addicted  to  defamation,  and 
envious  of  any  good  to  any  man,  who  may  have  contributed  to 
spread  reports  of  this  kind;  for  nothing  is  so  swift  as  scandal, 
nothing  is  more  easily  sent  abroad,  nothing  received  with  more 
welcome,  nothing  diffuses  itself  so  universally.  I shall  not  desire 
that  if  any  report  to  our  disadvantage  has  any  ground  for  it,  you 
would  overlook  or  extenuate  it;  but  if  there  be  anything  advanced 
without  a person  who  can  say  whence  he  had  it,  or  which  is  attested 
by  one  who  forgot  who  told  him  it,  or  who  had  it  from  one  of  so 


io8  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

little  consideration  that  he  did  not  then  think  it  worth  his  notice — 
all  such  testimonies  as  these,  I know,  you  will  think  too  slight  to 
have  any  credit  against  the  innocence  and  honor  of  your  fellow- 
citizen.”  When  an  ill  report  is  traced,  it  very  often  vanishes  among 
such  as  the  orator  has  here  recited.  And  how  despicable  a creature 
must  that  be  who  is  in  pain  for  what  passes  among  so  frivolous  a 
people  ! There  is  a town  in  Warwickshire  of  good  note,  and  for- 
merly pretty  famous  for  much  animosity  and  dissension,  the  chief 
families  of  which  have  now  turned  all  their  whispers,  backbitings, 
envies,  and  private  malices  into  mirth  and  entertainment,  by  means 
of  a peevish  old  gentlewoman  known  by  the  title  of  the  Lady 
Bluemantle.  This  heroine  had  for  many  years  together  outdone 
the  whole  sisterhood  of  gossips  in  invention,  quick  utterance,  and 
unprovoked  malice.  This  good  body  is  of  a lasting  constitution, 
though  extremely  decayed  in  her  eyes  and  decrepit  in  her  feet. 
The  two  circumstances  of  being  always  at  home  from  her  lameness, 
and  very  attentive  from  her  blindness,  make  her  lodgings  the  recep- 
tacle of  all  that  passes  in  town,  good  or  bad;  but  for  the  latter  she 
seems  to  have  the  better  memory.  There  is  another  thing  to  be 
noted  of  her,  which  is  that,  as  it  is  usual  with  old  people,  she  has  a 
livelier  memory  of  things  which  passed  when  she  was  very  young 
than  of  late  years.  Add  to  all  this,  that  she  does  not  only  not  love 
anybody,  but  she  hates  everybody.  The  statue  in  Lome'  does 
not  serve  to  vent  malice  half  so  well  as  this  old  lady  does  to  disap- 
point it.  She  does  not  know  the  author  of  anything  that  is  told 
her,  but  can  readily  repeat  the  matter  itself  ; therefore,  though  she 
exposes  all  the  whole  town,  she  offends  no  one  body  in  it.  She  is 
so  exquisitely  restless  and  peevish  that  she  quarrels  with  all  about 
her,  and  sometimes  in  a freak  will  instantly  change  her  habitation. 
To  indulge  this  humor,  she  is  led  about  the  grounds  belonging  to 
the  same  house  she  is  in,  and  the  persons  to  whom  she  is  to  remove 
being  in  the  plot,  and  ready  to  receive  her  at  her  own  chamber 
again.  At  stated  times  the  gentlewoman  at  whose  house  she  sup- 
poses she  is  at  the  time  is  sent  for  to  quarrel  with,  according  to 
her  common  custom.  When  they  have  a mind  to  drive  the  jest,  she 
is  immediately  urged  to  that  degree,  that  she  will  board  in  a family 
with  which  she  has  never  yet  been;  and  away  she  will  go  this 
instant,  and  tell  them  all  that  the  rest  have  been  saying  of  them. 
By  this  means  she  has  been  an  inhabitant  of  every  house  in  the 
place  -without  stirring  from  the  same  habitation  ; and  the  many 


Sir  Richard  Steele . 


109 


stories  which  everybody  furnishes  her  with  to  favor  that  deceit 
make  her  the  general  intelligencer  of  the  town  of  all  that  can  be 
said  by  one  woman  against  another.  Thus  groundless  stories  die 
away,  and  sometimes  truths  are  smothered  under  the  general  word, 
when  they  have  a mind  to  discountenance  a thing  : Oh  ! that  is  in 
my  Lady  Bluemantle’s  memoirs. 

Whoever  receives  impressions  to  the  disadvantage  of  others  without 
examination  is  to  be  had  in  no  other  credit  for  intelligence  than 
this  good  Lady  Bluemantle,  who  is  subjected  to  have  her  ears 
imposed  upon  for  want  of  other  helps  to  better  information.  Add 
to  this  that  other  scandal-bearers  suspend  the  use  of  these  faculties 
which  she  has  lost  rather  than  apply  them  to  do  justice  to  their 
neighbors,  and  I think,  for  the  service  of  my  fair  readers,  to 
acquaint  them  that  there  is  a voluntary  Lady  Bluemantle  at  every 
visit  in  town. 


FIDELIA;  OR,  THE  DUTIFUL  DAUGHTER. 

“Tibi  scriptus,  matrona,  libellus.” 

— Mar 

“ A book  the  chastest  matron  may  peruse.” 

She  who  shall  lead  the  small,  illustrious  number  of  my  female 
heroines  shall  be  the  amiable  Fidelia. 

Before  I enter  upon  the  particular  parts  of  her  character,  it  is 
necessary  to  preface  that  she  is  the  only  child  of  a decrepit  father, 
whose  life  is  bound  up  in  hers.  This  gentleman  has  used  Fidelia 
from  her  cradle  with  all  the  tenderness  imaginable,  and  has  viewed 
her  growing  perfections  with  the  partiality  of  a parent,  that  soon 
thought  her  accomplished  above  the  children  of  all  other  men,  but 
never  thought  she  was  come  to  the  utmost  improvement  of  which 
she  herself  was  capable.  This  fondness  has  had  very  happy  effects 
upon  his  own  happiness,  for  she  reads,  she  dances,  she  sings,  uses 
her  spinet  and  lute  to  the  utmost  perfection  ; and  the  lady’s  use 
of  all  these  excellences  is  to  divert  the  old  man  in  his  easy-chair 
when  he  is  out  of  the  pangs  of  a chronical  distemper.  Fidelia  is 
now  in  the  twenty-third  year  of  her  age  ; but  the  application  of 
many  lovers,  her  vigorous  time  of  life,  her  quick  sense  of  all  that  is 
truly  gallant  and  elegant  in  the  enjoyment  of  a plentiful  fortune, 
are  not  able  to  draw  her  from  the  side  of  her  good  old  father. 

Certain  it  is  that  there  is  no  kind  of  affection  so  pure  and  angel- 


no 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


ic  as  that  of  a father  to  a daughter.  He  beholds  her  both  with  and 
without  regard  to  her  sex.  In  love  to  our  wives  there  is  a desire,  to 
our  sons  there  is  ambition ; but  in  that  to  our  daughters  there  is 
something  which  there  are  no  words  to  express.  Her  life  is  design- 
ed wholly  domestic,  and  she  is  so  ready  a friend  and  companion 
that  everything  that  passes  about  a man  is  accompanied  with  the 
idea  of  her  presence.  Her  sex  also  is  naturally  so  much  exposed  to 
hazard,  both  as  to  fortune  and  to  innocence,  that  there  is,  perhaps, 
a new  cause  of  fondness  arising  from  that  consideration  also.  None 
but  fathers  can  have  a true  sense  of  these  sort  of  pleasures  and  sen- 
sations ; but  my  familiarity  with  the  father  of  Fidelia  makes  me 
let  drop  the  words  which  I have  heard  him  speak,  and  observe 
upon  his  tenderness  toward  her. 

Fidelia,  on  her  part,  as  I was  going  to  say,  as  accomplished  as 
she  is,  with  all  her  beauty,  wit,  air,  and  mien,  employs  her  whole 
time  in  care  and  attendance  upon  her  father.  How  have  I been 
charmed  to  see  one  of  the  most  beauteous  women  the  age  has  pro- 
duced on  her  knees  helping  on  an  old  man’s  slipper  ! Her  filial  re- 
gard for  him  is  what  she  makes  her  diversion,  her  business,  and 
her  glory.  When  she  was  asked  by  a friend  of  her  deceased  mother 
to  admit  of  the  courtship  of  her  son,  she  answered  that  she  had  a 
great  respect  and  gratitude  to  her  for  the  overture  in  behalf  of  one 
so  near  to  her,  but  that  during  her  father’s  life  she  should  admit 
into  her  heart  no  value  for  anything  that  should  interfere  with  her 
endeavor  to  make  his  remains  of  life  as  happy  and  easy  as  could  be 
expected  in  his  circumstances. 

When  the  general  crowd  of  female  youth  are  consulting  their 
glasses,  preparing  for  balls,  assemblies,  or  plays,  for  a young  lady 
who  could  be  regarded  among  the  foremost  in  those  places,  either 
for  her  person,  wit,  fortune,  or  conversation,  and  yet  contemn  all 
these  entertainments  to  sweeten  the  heavy  hours  of  a decrepit  pa- 
rent, is  a resignation  truly  heroic.  Fidelia  performs  the  duty  of  a 
nurse  with  all  the  beauty  of  a bride  ; nor  does  she  neglect  her  per- 
son because  of  her  attendance  on  him,  when  he  is  too  ill  to  receive 
company,  to  whom  she  may  make  an  appearance. 

Fidelia,  who  gives  up  her  youth,  does  not  think  it  any  sacrifice  to 
add  to  it  the  spoiling  of  her  dress.  Her  care  and  exactness  in  her 
habit  convince  her  father  of  the  alacrity  of  her  mind,  and  she  has 
of  all  women  the  best  foundation  for  affecting  the  praise  of  a seem- 
ing negligence.  What  adds  to  the  entertainment  of  the  good  old 


Sir  Richard  Steele . 


1 1 1 


man  is  that  Fidelia,  where  merit  and  fortune  cannot  be  overlooked 
by  epistolary  lovers,  reads  over  the  accounts  of  her  conquests,  plays 
on  her  spinet  the  gayest  airs,  to  intimate  to  him  the  pleasures  she 
despises  for  his  sake. 

Those  who  think  themselves  the  patterns  of  good  breeding  and 
gallantry  would  be  astonished  to  hear  that  in  those  intervals  when 
the  old  gentleman  is  at  ease  and  can  bear  company,  there  are  at 
his  house,  in  the  most  regular  order,  assemblies  of  people  of  the  high- 
est merit,  where  there  is  conversation  without  mention  of  the  faults 
of  the  absent,  benevolence  between  men  and  women  without  pas- 
sion, and  the  highest  subjects  of  morality  treated  of  as  a natural  and 
accidental  discourse ; all  which  is  owing  to  the  genius  of  Fidelia, 
who  at  once  makes  her  father’s  way  to  another  world  easy,  and 
herself  capable  of  being  an  honor  to  his  name  in  this. 


A QUAKER  IN  A STAGE-COACH. 

“Qui,  aut  tempus  quid  postulet  non  videt,  aut  plura  loquitur,  aut  se  ostentat, 
aut  eorum  quibuscum  est  rationem  non  habet,  is  ineptus  esse  dicitur.  ” 

—Tull. 

“ That  man  is  guilty  of  impertinence  who  considers  not  the  circumstances  of 
time,  or  engrosses  the  conversation,  or  makes  himself  the  subject  of  his  dis- 
course, or  pays  no  regard  to  the  company  he  is  in.” 

Having  notified  to  my  good  friend  Sir that  I would  set  out 

for  London  the  next  day,  his  horses  were  ready  at  the  appointed 
hour  in  the  evening,  and,  attended  by  one  of  his  grooms,  I arrived 
at  the  county  town  at  twilight,  in  order  to  be  ready  for  the  stage- 
coach the  day  following.  As  soon  as  we  arrived  at  the  inn,  the 
servant  who  waited  upon  me  enquired  of  the  chamberlain  in  my 
hearing  what  company  he  had  for  the  coach.  The  fellow  answered, 
Miss  Betty  Arable,  the  great  fortune,  and  the  widow,  her  mother ; 
a recruiting  officer,  who  took  a place  because  they  were  to  go; 
young  Squire  Quickset,  her  cousin,  that  her  mother  wished  her  to 
be  married  to ; and  Ephraim,  the  Quaker,  her  guardian.  I observed 
by  what  he  had  said  that  according  to  his  office  he  dealt  much  in 
intelligence,  and  doubted  not  but  there  was  some  foundation  for 
his  reports  of  the  company. 

The  next  morning  at  daybreak  we  were  all  called,  and  I,  who 
know  my  own  natural  shyness,  and  endeavor  to  be  as  little  liable  to 
be  disputed  with  as  possible,  dressed  immediately,  that  I might  make 


I 12 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


no  one  wait.  The  first  preparation  for  our  setting  out  was  that  the 
captain’s  half -pike  was  placed  near  the  coachman,  and  a drum  behind 
the  coach.  In  the  meantime  the  drummer,  referring  to  the  captain’s 
equipage,  was  very  loud  that  none  of  'the  captain’s  things  should 
be  placed  so  as  to  he  spoiled,  upon  which  the  cloak-bag  was  fixed 
in  the  seat  of  the  coach ; and  the  captain  himself,  according  to  a 
frequent  though  invidious  behavior  of  military  men,  ordered  his 
man  to  look  sharp  that  none  but  one  of  the  ladies  would  have  the 
place  he  had  taken  fronting  the  coach-box. 

We  were  in  some  little  time  fixed  in  our  seats,  and  sat  with  that 
dislike  which  people  not  too  good-natured  usually  conceive  of  each 
other  at  first  sight.  The  coach  jumbled  us  insensibly  into  some 
sort  of  familiarity,  and  we  had  not  moved  above  two  miles  when 
the  widow  asked  the  captain  what  success  he  had  in  his  recruiting. 
The  officer,  with  a frankness  he  believed  very  graceful,  told  her 
“that  indeed  he  had  but  very  little  luck,  and  had  suffered  much 
by  desertion,  therefore  should  be  glad  to  end  his  warfare  in  the 
service  of  her  or  her  fair  daughter.  In  a word,”  continued  he,  “ I 
am  a soldier,  and  to  be  plain  is  my  character.  You  see  me,  madam, 
young,  sound,  and  impudent  ; take  me  yourself,  widow,  or  give  me 
to  her ; I will  be  wholly  at  your  disposal.  I am  a soldier  of  for- 
tune, ha  ! ” 

This  was  followed  by  a vain  laugh  of  his  own,  and  a deep  silence 
of  all  the  rest  of  the  company. 

“Come,”  said  he,  “resolve  upon  it;  we  will  make  a wedding  at 
next  town;  we  will  awake  this  pleasant  companion  who  is  fallen 
asleep  to  be  the  brideman,  and,”  giving  the  Quaker  a clap  on  the 
knee,  he  concluded,  “this  sly  saint,  who,  I will  warrant,  under- 
stands what  is  what  as  well  as  you  or  I,  widow,  shall  give  the  bride 
as  father.” 

The  Quaker,  who  happened  to  be  a man  of  smartness,  answered : 
“ Friend,  I take  it  in  good  part  that  thou  hast  given  me  the 
authority  of  a father  over  this  comely  and  virtuous  child  ; and  I 
must  assure  thee  that  if  I have  the  giving  her,  I shall  not  bestow 
her  on  thee.  Thy  mirth,  friend,  savoreth  of  folly  ; thou  art  a 
person  of  a light  mind  ; thy  drum  is  a type  of  thee  : it  soundeth 
because  it  is  empty.  Yerily,  it  is  not  from  thy  fulness  but  thy 
emptiness  that  thou  hast  spoken  this  day.  Friend,  friend,  we  have 
hired  this  coach  in  partnership  with  thee,  to  carry  us  to  the  great 
city ; we  cannot  go  any  other  way.  This  worthy  mother  must  hear 


Sir  Richard  Steele. 


IJ3 

thee  if  thou  wilt  needs  utter  thy  follies — we  cannot  help  it,  friend, 
I say  ; if  thou  wilt,  we  must  hear  thee  ; but  if  thou  wert  a man  of 
understanding,  thou  wouldst  not  take  advantage  of  thy  courageous 
countenance  to  abash  us  children  of  peace.  Thou  art,  thou  sayest, 
a soldier  ; give  quarter  to  us,  who  cannot  resist  thee.  Why  didst 
thou  fleer  at  our  friend,  who  feigned  himself  asleep  and  said 
nothing  ? But  how  dost  thou  know  what  he  containeth  ? If  thou 
speakest  improper  things  in  the  hearing  of  this  virtuous  young 
virgin,  consider  it  is  an  outrage  against  a distressed  person  that 
cannot  get  from  thee;  to  speak  indiscreetly  what  we  are  obliged  to 
hear,  by  being  hasped  up  with  thee  in  this  public  vehicle,  is  in 
some  degree  assaulting  on  the  high-road.” 

Here  Ehpraim  paused,  and  the  captain,  with  an  unhappy  and 
uncommon  impudence,  which  can  be  convicted  and  support  itself 
at  the  same  time,  cries : “ Faith,  friend,  I thank  thee ; I should  have 
been  a little  impertinent  if  thou  hadst  not  reprimanded  me.  Come, 
thou  art,  I see,  a smoky  old  fellow,  and  I will  be  very  orderly  the 
ensuing  part  of  my  journey.  I was  going  to  give  myself  airs,  but, 
ladies,  I beg  pardon.” 

The  captain  was  so  little  out  of  humor,  and  our  company  was  so 
far  from  being  soured  by  this  little  ruffle,  that  Ephraim  and  he  took 
a particular  delight  in  being  agreeable  to  each  other  for  the  future, 
and  assumed  their  different  provinces  in  the  conduct  of  the  com- 
pany. Our  reckonings,  apartments,  and  accommodation  fell  un- 
der Ephraim ; and  the  captain  looked  to  all  disputes  on  the  road, 
as  the  good  behavior  of  our  coachman  and  the  right  we  had  of 
taking  place  as  going  to  London  of  all  vehicles  coming  from 
thence.  The  occurrences  we  met  with  were  ordinary,  and  very 
little  happened  which  could  entertain  by  the  relation  of  them  ; but 
when  I considered  the  company  we  were  in,  I took  it  for  no 
small  good  fortune  that  the  whole  journey  was  not  spent  in  im- 
pertinences, which  to  the  one  part  of  us  might  be  an  entertain- 
ment, to  the  other  a suffering.  What,  therefore,  Ephraim  said 
when  we  were  almost  arrived  at  London  had  to  me  -an  air  not  only 
of  good  understanding,  but  good  breeding.  Upon  the  young  lady’s 
expressing  her  satisfaction  in  the  journey,  and  declaring  how 
delightful  it  had  been  to  her,  Ephraim  delivered  himself  as 
follows : “ There  is  no  ordinary  part  of  human  life  which  ex- 

pressed so  much  a good  mind  and  a right  inward  man  as  his  be- 
havior upon  meeting  with  strangers,  especially  such  as  may  seem 


1 14  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

the  most  unsuitable  companions  to  him.  Such  a man,  when  he 
falleth  in  the  way  with  persons  of  simplicity  and  innocence,  how- 
ever knowing  he  may  be  in  the  ways  of  men,  will  not  vaunt  himself 
thereof,  but  will  the  rather  hide  his  superiority  to  them,  that  he  may 
not  be  painful  unto  them.  My  good  friend,”  continued  he,  turning 
to  the  officer,  “ thee  and  I are  to  part  by  and  by,  and  perad venture 
we  may  never  meet  again  ; but  be  advised  by  a plain  man : modes 
and  apparel  are  but  trifles  to  the  real  man,  therefore  do  not  think 
such  a man  as  thyself  terrible  for  thy  garb,  nor  such  a one  as  me 
contemptible  for  mine.  When  two  such  as  thee  and  I meet,  with 
affections  as  we  ought  to  have  toward  each  other,  thou  shouldst 
rejoice  to  see  my  peaceful  demeanor,  and  I should  be  glad  to  see 
thy  strength  and  ability  to  protect  me  in  it.” 


LETTERS  FROM  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE  TO  HIS  WIFE 

Christmas  Day.24 

Dear  Prue  : I went  the  other  day  to  see  Betty 25  at  Chelsea, 
who  represented  to  me,  in  her  pretty  language,  “ that  she  seemed 
helpless  and  friendless,  without  anybody’s  taking  notice  of  her  at 
Christmas,  when  all  the  children  but  she  and  two  more  were  with 
their  relations.”  I have  invited  her  to  dinner  to-day,  with  one  of 
the  teachers,  and  they  are  here  now  in  the  room,  Betty  and  Moll 
very  noisy  and  pleased  together.  Bess  goes  back  again,  as  soon  as 
she  has  dined,  to  Chelsea.  I have  stayed  in  to  get  a very  advanta- 
geous affair  despatched  ; for,  I assure  you,  I love  money  at  present 
as  well  as  your  ladyship,  and  am  entirely  yours. 

I told  Betty  I had  writ  to  you,  and  she  made  me  open  the  letter 
again  and  give  her  humble  duty  to  her  mother,  and  desire  to 
know  when  she  shall  have  the  honor  to  see  her  in  town.  She  gives 
her  love  to  Mrs.  Bevans  and  all  her  cousins. 

Richard  Steele. 

[Undated.] 

My  Dearest  Prue  : I have  yours  of  the  7th  instant,  which 
turns  wholly  upon  my  taking  care  of  my  health,  and  advice  to  for- 
bear embarking  too  deeply  in  public  matters,  which  you  enforce  by 
reminding  me  of  the  ingratitude  I have  met  with.  I have  as  quick 


24  1716. 


26  His  little  daughter 


Sir  Richard  Steele . 


sense  of  the  ill-treatment  I have  received  as  is  consistent  with  keep- 
ing up  my  own  spirit  and  good-humor.  Whenever  I am  a malcon- 
tent, I will  take  care  not  to  be  a gloomy  one,  but  hope  to  keep 
some  stings  of  wit  and  humor  in  my  own  defence.  I am  talking  to 
my  wife,  and  therefore  may  speak  my  heart  and  the  vanity  of  it. 
I know,  and  you  are  witness,  that  I have  served  the  royal  family 
with  an  unreservedness  due  only  to  Heaven,  and  I am  now  (I  thank 
my  brother  Whigs)  not  possessed  of  twenty  shillings  from  the  fa- 
vor of  the  court.  The  playhouse  it  had  been  barbarity  to  deny  at 
the  players’  request,  and  therefore  I do  not  allow  it  a favor.  But  I 
banish  the  very  memory  of  these  things,  nor  will  I expect  anything 
but  what  I must  strike  out  of  myself.  By  Tuesday’s  post  I think  I 
shall  be  able  to  guess  when  I shall  leave  the  town  and  turn  all  my 
thoughts  to  finish  my  comedy.26  You  will  find  I have  got  so  much 
constancy  and  fortitude  as  to  live  my  own  way  (within  the  rules  of 
good  breeding  and  decency)  wherever  I am  ; for  I will  not  sacri- 
fice your  husband,  and  the  father  of  the  poor  babes,  to  any  one’s 
humor  in  the  world.  But  to  provide  for  and  do  you  good  is  all 
my  ambition. 

I have  a list  of  twenty-one  leases  for  the  setting  out  £199  8s.  per 
annum.  I have  not  yet  heard  of  Mr.  Philips.  I am,  dear  Prue, 
ever  yours.  Richard  Steele. 

Hamptoh  Court,  March  16,  1716-17. 

Dear  Prue  : If  you  have  written  anything  to  me  which  I 
should  have  received  last  night,  I beg  your  pardon  that  I cannot 
answer  it  till  the  next  post.  The  House  of  Commons  will  be  very 
busy  the  next  week  ; and  I had  many  things,  public  and  private, 
for  which  I wanted  four-and-twenty  hours’  retirement,  and  there- 
fore came  to  visit  your  son.  I came  out  of  town  yesterday,  being 
Friday,  and  shall  return  to-morrow.  Your  son,  at  the  present  writ- 
ing, is  mighty  well  employed  in  tumbling  on  the  floor  of  the  room 
and  sweeping  the  sand  with  a feather.  He  grows  a most  delight- 
ful child,  and  very  full  of  play  and  spirit.  He  is  also  a very  great 
scholar : he  can  read  his  primer,  and  I have  brought  down  my 
Virgil.  He  makes  most  shrewd  remarks  upon  the  pictures.  We 
are  very  intimate  friends  and  play-fellows.  He  begins  to  be  very 
ragged  ; and  I hope  I shall  be  pardoned  if  I equip  him  with  new 


26  If  this  was  his  “ Consoio\*s  Lovers,”  it  remained  unfinished  till  1721. 


1 1 6 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

clothes  and  frocks,  or  what  Mrs.  Evans  and  I shall  think  for  his 
service.  I am,  dear  Prue,  ever  yours, 

Richard  Steele. 


March  26,  1717. 

My  Dearest  Prue  : I have  received  yours,  wherein  you  give  me 
the  sensible  affliction  of  letting  me  know  of  the  continual  pain  in 
your  head.  I could  not  meet  with  necessary  advice  ; but,  accord- 
ing to  the  descriptions  you  give  me,  I am  confident  washing  your 
head  in  cold  water  will  cure  you — I mean,  having  water  poured  on 
your  head,  and  rubbed  with  a hand,  from  the  crown  of  your  head 
to  the  nape  of  your  neck.  When  I lay  in  your  place  and  on  your 
pillow,  I assure  you,  I fell  into  tears  last  night,  to  think  that  my 
charming  little  insolent  might  be  then  awake  and  in  pain,  and  took 
it  to  be  a sin  to  go  asleep. 

For  this  tender  passion  towards  you,  I must  be  contented  that  your 
Prueship  will  condescend  to  call  yourself  my  well-wisher.  I am 
going  abroad,  and  write  before  I go  out,  lest  accidents  should  hap- 
pen to  prevent  my  writing  at  all.  If  I can  meet  with  further  advice 
for  you,  I will  send  it  in  a letter  to  Alexander.  I am,  dear  Prue, 
ever  yours, 


Richard  Steele. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT,  D.D. 


“ The  greatest  wit  of  all  time.” — Thackeray. 

‘ ‘ He  knew,  almost  beyond  any  man,  the  purity,  the  extent,  the  precision  of 
the  English  language.” — Blair. 

“ The  most  agreeable  companion,  the  truest  friend,  and  the  greatest  genius  of 
his  age.”— Addison. 

“ 0 Jonathan  ! of  merry  fame, 

As  swift  in  fancy  as  in  name.  ” 

JONATHAN  SWIFT,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  in  the 
u history  of  literature,  was  born  on  November  the  30th,  1667,  at 
Hoey’s  Court,  Dublin — “that  renowned  city,”  as  he  afterwards 
wrote,  “where  I had  the  honor  to  draw  my  first  breath.”  His 
mother  was  poor,  and  he  was  ushered  into  the  world  about  seven 
months  after  his  father’s  death.  It  is  related  that  his  nurse  taught 
the  future  Dean  to  spell  at  three  years  of  age,  and  that  “ at  five 
he  was  able  to  read  any  chapter  in  the  Bible.”  In  his  sixth  year 
J onathan  was  sent  by  his  uncle,  Godwin  Swift,  to  the  school  at 
Kilkenny,  where  he  remained  for  eight  years. 

In  1682  he  was  admitted  within  the  historic  walls  of  Trinity 
College,  Dublin.  Young  Swift  first  showed  his  wit  and  strong 
sense  by  his  repugnance  to  the  obscure,  antiquated  jargon  which 
then  filled  the  works  on  logic  pursued  in  the  undergraduate  course. 
A logician  by  nature,  he  could  well  afford  to  despise  the  limping, 
stupid  ways  of  the  musty  old  books.  The  examination  day  came. 
The  solemn  professors  asked  hard  questions.  Swift  refused  to  reply 
to  the  senseless  jargon  propounded  to  him.  He  was  warned  to 
study  logic  and  to  come  before  the  grave  faculty  on  a future 
occasion.  But  Jonathan,  neglecting  nearly  everything  else,  re- 
solutely bent  his  mind  to  poetry  and  history.  Again  came  around 
the  day  of  trial.  We  shall  let  another  tell  what  happened  : 

“ In  1685,  in  the  great  hall  of  Dublin  University,  the  pro- 
fessors engaged  in  examining  for  the  bachelor’s  degree  enjoyed  a 
singular  spectacle.  A poor  scholar,  odd,  awkward,  with  hard  blue 
eyes,  an  orphan,  friendless,  poorly  supported  by  the  charity  of  an> 


1 1 8 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

ancle,  having  once  failed  before  to  take  his  degree  on  account  of  his 
ignorance  of  logic,  had  come  up  again  without  having  condescended 
to  read  logic.  When  the  argumentation  came  on,  the  proctor  was 
obliged  ‘ to  reduce  his  replies  into  syllogism.  ’ He  was  asked  how 
he  could  reason  well  without  rules.  He  replied  that  he  did  reason 
pretty  well  without  them.  This  folly  shocked  them ; yet  he  was 
received,  though  barely,  speciali  gratia / says  the  register,  and 
the  professors  went  away,  doubtless  with  pitying  smiles,  lamenting 
the  feeble  brain  of  Jonathan  Swift ! ”  1  2 Thus  by  collegiate  sophists 
and  pedagogues  the  future  renowned  author  of  “ Gulliver’s  Trav- 
els” and  “The  Tale  of  a Tub”  was  regarded  as  little  short  of  a 
downright  blockhead.3  It  is  but  fair  to  add,  however,  that  Swift 
himself  was  not  satisfied  with  his  college  work.  He  resolved  to 
make  up  for  any  lost  time,  and  for  the  next  seven  years  it  is  said 
he  studied  about  eight  hours  a day. 

By  the  death  of  his  uncle,  Godwin,  in  1688,  young  Swift  was 
flung  upon  the  world.  He  went  to  England  to  see  his  poor  mother, 
with  whom  he  remained  for  some  months.  She  advised  him  to 
make  his  circumstances  known  to  Sir  William  Temple,  one  of  the 
ablest  and  most  scholarly  men  of  his  day.  Temple  was  married  to 
one  of  her  relatives.  Jonathan  did  as  he  was  advised,  and  the  re- 
sult was  that  he  became  Sir  William  Temple’s  private  secretary. 
Here  he  met  some  of  the  greatest  men  of  his  day — men  who 
have  since  passed  into  history.  The  young  Irishman  was  intro- 
duced to  King  William  III.,  who  not  only  showed  him  how  to  eat 
asparagus  after  the  Dutch  fashion — stalks  and  all — but  even  offered 
to  make  him  captain  of  a troop  of  horse,  a position  that  Swift 
politely  refused.  This  not  too  happy  portion,  of  the  famous  Dean’s 
life  is  thus  humorously  sketched  by  a late  writer : 

“It  was  at  Shene  and  at  Moor  Park,  with  a salary  of  twenty 
pounds  [$100],  and  a dinner  at  the  upper  servants’  table,  that  this 
great  and  lonely  Swift  passed  a ten  years’  apprenticeship,  wore  a 
cassock  that  was  not  a livery,  bent  down  a knee  as  proud  as  Luci- 
fer’s to  supplicate  my  lady’s  good  graces,  or  ran  on  his  honor’s  er- 
rands. It  was  here,  as  he  was  writing  at  Temple’s  table  or  follow- 

1 By  a special  favor. 

2 Taine,  “ History  of  English  Literature.” 

3 The  accounts  of  Swift’s  college  career  are  so  various  and  contradictory  that  it  is  no 
easy  matter  to  get  at  the  real  truth.  We  believe  many  of  his  English  and  Scotch  bio- 
graphers have,  in  this  connection,  done  the  illustrious  author  of  “Gulliver”  great  in- 
justice, not  to  say  slandered  him.  See  his  life  by  Thomas  Roscoe. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


119 

ing  his  patron’s  walk,  that  he  saw  and  heard  the  men  who  had 
governed  the  great  world ; measured  himself  with  them,  looking 
up  from  his  silent  cover ; gauged  their  brains,  weighed  their  wits, 
turned  them  and  tried  them  and  marked  them.  Ah  ! what  plati- 
tudes he  must  have  heard ; what  feeble  jokes  ! what  pompous 
commonplaces  ! What  small  men  they  must  have  seemed,  under 
those  enormous  periwigs,  to  the  swarthy,  uncouth,  silent  Irish  sec- 
retary ! I wonder  whether  it  ever  struck  Temple  that  the  Irishman 
was  his  master  ? I suppose  that  dismal  conviction  did  not  present 
itself  under  the  ambrosial  wig,  or  Temple  could  never  have  lived 
with  Swift.  Swift  sickened,  rebelled,  left  the  service,  ate  humble- 
pie,  and  came  back  again  ; and  so  for  ten  years  went  on  gathering 
learning,  swallowing  corn,  and  submitting  with  a stealthy  rage  to 
his  fortune.” 4 

Swift  entered  Oxford  University,  and,  after  a few  weeks’  study, 
received  the  degree  of  M.A.  In  1695  he  took  orders  in  the  Episco- 
pal Church.  His  first  appointment  was  to  the  humble  living  of 
Kilroot,  in  the  diocese  of  Connor.  On  Temple’s  death  he  became 
the  literary  executor  of  his  old  patron,  and  prepared  numerous 
works  for  the  press,  ne  expected  preferment  in  the  English 
Church.  With  that  object  in  view  he  wrote  to  the  king,  and  the 
Earl  of  Romney  promised  to  assist  him.  Of  that  nobleman  Swift 
afterwards  wrote:  “The  Earl  of  Romney,  who  professed  much 
friendship,  promised  to  second  my  petition,  but  as  he  was  an  old, 
vicious,  illiterate  rake,  without  any  sense  of  truth  or  honor,  he  said 
not  a word  of  it  to  the  king.” 

At  length,  disgusted  with  things  generally,  Swift  accepted  the 
post  of  chaplain  to  the  Earl  of  Berkeley,  and  accompanied  him  to 
Ireland.  The  deanery  of  Derry  soon  became  vacant.  The  young 
minister  applied  for  it.  He  was  told  that  the  good-will  of  the 
bishop  and  a bribe  of  $5,000  were  necessary  to  get  the  position. 
He  asked  the  Earl  of  Berkeley  if  this  was  so.  The  nobleman 
assured  him  it  was.  “ Then,”  exclaimed  the  honest  and  indignant 
Swift,  “may  God  confound  you  both  for  a couple  of  rascals  ! ” 

In  1699  he  was  appointed  rector  of  Augher  and  vicar  of  Laracor. 
Here  Protestants  were  very  scarce.  Swift,  however,  gave  notice 
that  during  Lent  he  would  read  the  prayers  in  church  on  Wednes- 
days and  Fridays.  When  the  first  evening  came  he  found  no  one 
present  but  Roger  Cox,  the  parish  clerk.  Nothing  surprised,  the 

4 Thackeray,  “ English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.” 


120  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

new  rector  ascended  the  desk  and  gravely  began  : “Dearly  beloved 
Roger,  the  Scripture  moveth  you  and  me  in  sundry  places,”  and  so 
proceeded  to  the  end  of  the  service. 

Swift  had  reached  his  thirty-fourth  year  when  he  took  his  place 
in  the  front  rank  of  politics  by  writing  a pamphlet  on  the  Whig 
side.  His  pen  was  the  lever  by  which  he  meant  to  raise  Jonathan 
to  the  pinnacle  of  clerical  or  political  greatness.  “Against  all 
comers,”  says  Coppee,  “ he  stood  the  Goliath  of  pamphleteers  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne,  and  there  arose  no  David  who  could  slay 
him.”  In  1704  appeared  his  extraordinary  “Tale  of  a Tub.”5  It 
is  the  wildest  and  wittiest  of  his  polemical  works. 

He  now  began  to  measure  his  own  power.  The  politicians  courted 
and  feared  his  powerful  pen  more  than  if  it  were  ten  thousand 
swords.  He  treated  lords  and  dukes  as  if  he  were  more  than  one 
himself.  For  a political  article  Harley,  the  Prime  Minister,  sent 
him  a bank-bill.  Swift  was  insulted  at  being  taken  for  a paid 
man.  He  instantly  demanded  an  apology.  It  was  given.  He 
then  wrote  in  his  journal : “I  have  taken  Mr.  Harley  into  favor 
again.” 

On  one  occasion,  St.  John,  Secretary  of  State,  looked  coldly  on 
the  author  of  “The  Tale  of  a Tub.”  He  was  rebuked  without 
delay.  “I  warned  him,”  writes  Swift,  “never  to  appear  cold  to 
me ; for  it  was  what  I would  hardly  bear  from  a crowned  head.  ” 
St.  John  excused  himself,  saying  that  several  nights  at  “business 
and  one  at  drinking  ” made  him  seem  ill-humored. 

“Mr.  Secretary,”  writes  Swift  on  another  occasion,  “told  me 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham  had  been  talking  to  him  much  about  me 
and  desired  my  acquaintance.  I answered  it  could  not  be,  for  that 
he  had  not  made  sufficient  advances.6  Then  the  Duke  of  Shrews- 
bury said  he  thought  the  duke  was  not  used  to  make  advances.  I 
said  I could  not  help  that ; for  I always  expected  advances  in  pro- 
portion to  men’s  quality,  and  more  from  a duke  than  other  men.” 
Thus  the  dignity  and  haughty  manners  of  Swift  compelled  even 
the  great  to  bend  before  him.  In  the  Prime  Minister’s  drawing- 
room he  would  go  and  speak  to  some  obscure  person,  forcing  lords 
to  do  the  same. 

In  1713  Dr.  Swift  was  appointed  dean  of  St.  Patrick’s,  Dublin. 
At  first  his  native  city  treated  him  badly.  The  mob  threw  mud  at 


5 It  was  first  published  anonymously. 

* The  reader  must  not  understand  this  as  referring  to  money. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


I 2 I 


the  Dean,  and  he  was  insulted  by  the  aristocracy.  He  lived,  how- 
ever, to  see  these  feelings  vanish  as  the  mists  of  morning. 

The  sad  sufferings  of  his  country  each  year  more  deeply  touched, 
him.  In  his  heart  he  hated  the  corruption  of  the  English  court 
and  the  unmatched  tyranny  of  England.  An  occasion  soon  offered 
when  those  feelings,  long  welled  up,  burst  forth  like  the  dread  roar 
of  a mighty  cataract.  In  1724  an  Englishman,  named  William 
Wood,  obtained  a patent  from  the  Government  empowering  him  to 
coin  £180,000  worth  of  copper  for  circulation  in  Ireland.  Swift, 
who  saw  in  this  measure  another  link  added  to  the  Irish  chain,  flew 
to  the  rescue  of  his  oppressed  countrymen,  and  in  a Dublin  news- 
paper produced  a series  of  letters  marked  by  bold,  simple,  and 
hardy  eloquence,  and  signed  “M.  B.  Drapier.”  Wood  and  his  patent 
were  squelched,  and  the  great  Dean  became  from  that  day  the  idol 
of  the  Irish  people.  The  printer  of  the  Letters”  was  imprisoned, 
and  a reward  of  £300  was  offered  for  the  author.  Loved  by  all, 
no  one  was  found  base  enough  to  betray  Drapier.  Ever  afterwards 
Swift  was  known  as  The  Deah.  His  power  over  the  masses  was 
really  boundless.  Once  when  a Protestant  archbishop  accused 
him  of  stirring  up  the  populace,  Swift  excused  himself  by  saying: 
“ If  I had  but  lifted  up  my  little  finger,  they  would  have  torn  you 
to  pieces  ! ” 

In  1726,  when  in  his  fifty-ninth  year,  the  “ Travels  of  Captain 
Gulliver,”  that  wonderful  fiction  and  inimitable  political  and  social 
satire,  was  issued  by  a London  publisher.  Swift’s  name  was,  of 
course,  not  appended  to  it.  It  was  so  with  nearly  all  his  works. 
They  at  first  appeared  anonymously.  He  claimed  them  only  after 
witnessing  their  impression  on  the  public  mind.  High  and  low 
read  “ Gulliver,”  and  all  were  astonished  at  the  wit,  plainness, 
genius,  and  audacity  of  the  unknown  author  and  his  strangely 
curious  book.  This  was  his  last  great  literary  effort. 

An  old  constitutional  disorder,  exhibiting  itself  in  attacks  of  gid- 
diness and  deafness,  which  at  intervals  had  dogged  his  steps 
throughout  life,  now  gradually  settled  down  upon  the  great  and 
lonely  Swift.  As  age  advanced  his  attacks  were  more  frequent. 
His  temper  grew  terrible,  yet  he  continued  to  write  until  173G. 
The  friends  of  his  youth  and  his  manhood  were  one  by  one  gath- 
ered to  the  tomb.  Above  all,  Stella,  whom  he  dearly  loved,  had 
passed  away.  He  stood  almost  alone,  and  he  deeply  felt  his  posi- 
tion. His  distress  of  mind  seems  to  have  been  bitter  in  the  ex- 


122 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


treme.  His  usual  mode  of  salutation  in  taking  leave  of  his  dearest 
friends  for  years  before  his  death  partook  of  that  melancholy  eccen- 
tricity so  peculiar  to  him.  “ May  God  bless  you  ! ” he  would  say ; 
4 ‘ I trust  we  shall  never  meet  again.  ” 7 
Dr.  Young  tells  us  that  one  evening  himself  and  Swift  were 
taking  an  evening  walk  about  a mile  out  of  Dublin.  The  Dean 
stopped  short,  and,  looking  upwards  at  a noble  tree  which  at  the 
top  was  much  withered  and  decayed,  he  pointed  to  it,  saying: 
“ I shall  be  like  that  tree  : I shall  wither  first  at  the  top,” 

We  hasten  in  sorrow,  as  from  some  unavoidable  calamity,  over 
the  closing  scene.  The  state  of  his  mind  is  vividly  described  in  a 
few  sentences  to  his  friend  and  comforter,  Mrs.  Whiteway : 

“l  have  been  very  miserable  all  night,  and  to-day  extremely  deaf 
and  full  of  pain.  I am  so  stupid  and  confounded  that  I cannot 
express  the  mortification  I am  under,  both  in  body  and  in  mind. 
All  I can  say  is,  I am  not  in  torture,  but  I daily  and  hourly  expect  it. 
Pray  let  me  know  how  your  health  is  and  your  family.  I hardly 
understand  one  word  I write.  I am  sure  my  days  will  be  very  few  ; 
few  and  miserable  they  must  be.  I am,  for  these  few  days,  yours 
entirely.  “J.  Swift. 

“ If  I do  not  blunder,  it  is  Saturday.” 

We  shall  let  the  sympathetic  pen  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  describe  the 
last  sad  days  of  this  famous  man  : 

“ In  the  course  of  about  three  years  he  is  only  known  to  have 
spoken  once  or  twice.  At  length,  when  this  awful  moral  lesson 
had  subsisted  from  1743  until  the  19th  of  October,  1745,  it  pleased 
God  to  release  the  subject  of  these  memoirs  from  this  calamitous 
situation.  He  died  upon  that  day  without  a single  pang — so 
gently,  indeed,  that  his  attendants  were  scarce  aware  of  his  disso- 
lution. 

It  was  then  that  the  gratitude  of  the  Irish  showed  itself  in  the 
full  glow  of  national  enthusiasm.  The  interval  was  forgotten  dur- 
ing which  their  great  patriot  had  been  dead  to  the  world,  and  he 
was  wept  and  mourned  as  if  he  had  been  called  away  in  the  full 
career  of  his  public  services.  Young  and  old  of  all  ranks  sur- 
rounded the  house  to  pay  the  last  tribute  of  sorrow  and  affection. 
Locks  of  his  hair  were  so  eagerly  sought  after  that  Mr.  Sheridan 
happily  applies  to  the  enthusiasm  of  the  citizens  of  Dublin  the 
lines  of  Shakspere : 


7 Scott’s  “ Life  of  Swift.” 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


123 


“ ‘ Yea,  beg  a hair  of  him  in  memory, 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it  as  a real  legacy 
Unto  their  issue.’ 

“ Swift  was  in  person  tall,  strong,  and  well  made ; of  a dark 
complexion,  but  with  blue  eyes,  black  and  bushy  eyebrows,  nose 
somewhat  aquiline,  and  features  which  well  expressed  the  stern, 
haughty,  and  dauntless  turn  of  his  mind.  He  was  never  known  to 
laugh,  and  his  smiles  are  happily  characterized  by  the  well-known 
lines  of  Shakspere ; indeed,  the  whole  description  of  Cassius 
might  be  applied  to  Swift : 

“ ‘ He  reads  much  ; 

He  is  a great  observer,  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men  ; 

Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a sort 
As  if  he  mocked  himself  and  scorned  his  spirit, 

That  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  anything.’  ” 8 

Swift’s  writings  must  endure  as  long  as  the  English  language. 
He  was  a poet,  if  not  a very  great  one.  One  quality  he  possessed 
in  an  eminent  degree — originality.  Over  rhyme  he  had  an  entire 
mastery.  His  more  important  pieces  of  poetry  generally  abound  in 
good  sense,  «acute  remark,  and  richness  of  allusion.  The  great 
Dean’s  poem  on  his  own  death  is  one  of  his  longest,  and,  perhaps, 
the  best  effort  of  his  muse. 

But  his  fame  rests  securely  on  his  pure  and  powerful  prose.  “ I 
remember,”  writes  Sheridan,  “ to  have  heard  the  late  Hawkins 
Brown  say  that  the  ‘Drapier’s  Letters’  were  the  most  perfect  pieces 
of  oratory  ever  composed  since  the  days  of  Demosthenes.  And, 
indeed,  upon  comparison,  there  will  appear  a great  similitude 
between  the  two  writers.  They  both  make  use  of  the  plainest 
words,  and  such  as  were  in  most  general  use,  which  they  adorned 
only  by  a proper  and  most  beautiful  arrangement  of  them.”  Of 
the  numberless  merits  and  grave  defects  of  ‘ c Gulliver’s  Travels  ” — 
the  greatest,  most  popular,  and  most  original  of  his  works — much 
could  be  written.  Its  true  merit  consists  in  the  interest  and  origi- 
nality of  the  narratives,  and  the  rich  and  beautiful  simplicity  of 
the  diction.  But  the  gross  indecency  of  the  chapters  which  de- 


8 Eoscoe,  “Life  of  Swift.” 


124  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

scribe  the  land  of  the  Houyhnhnms  is  enough  to  shock  Christian 
modesty. 

“ Immodest  words  admit  of  no  defence, 

For  want  of  decency  is  want  of  sense.” 

“As  a writer,”  says  Dr.  Hart,  “Swift  is  without  a parallel  in 
English  letters.  His  style  is  a model  of  clear,  forcible  expression, 
displaying  a consummate  knowledge  of  the  foibles  and  vices  of  man- 
kind.” The  coarseness  which  frequently  disfigures  his  writings  is 
simply  a reflex  of  the  coarse  age  in  which  he  lived. 

Of  the  love-aflairs  of  the  Dean’s  life  we  have  neither  space  nor 
inclination  to  enter  at  any  length.  A small  volume  would  not  suf- 
fice to  explain  them.  Miss  Esther  Johnson  (“Stella”)  was  a 
gifted  and  lovely  girl,  whose  studies  Swift  in  early  life  directed. 
She  was  devotedly  attached  to  her  tutor,  and  many  years  afterwards 
(1716)  it  is  supposed  they  were  privately  married.  Miss  Jane 
Waryng  (“  Varina”)  was  a young  lady  who  at  first  rejected  Swift’s 
offer  of  marriage,  but  subsequently  repented  and  renewed  the  pro- 
posal herself.  Swift,  however,  replied  with  a refusal  as  decided  as 
her  own.  Miss  Esther  Vanhomrigh  (“Vanessa”)  was  another 
young  lady  whose  studies  the  famous  wit  directed.  The  young 
pupil  became  so  enamored  of  her  master  as  to  make  a proposal  of 
marriage.  She  was  certainly  not  encouraged  by  Swift.  It  is  said 
she  died  of  a broken  heart  in  1722.  It  must,  however,  be  confessed 
after  all  that  has  been  written  upon  it,  that  the  love-life  of  the 
author  of  “ Gulliver”  is  still  nearly  as  great  a mystery  as  the  “Man 
with  the  Iron  Mask.” 

The  character  of  Dr.  Swift  is  hard  to  be  understood.  This  we 
admit.  But  his  has  been  a much-abused  character.  Nearly  all  the 
English  writers  who  have  either  sketched  or  touched  it  have  done 
their  best  to  blacken  it.  Swift  was  an  Irishman.  That  was  enough. 
The  London  critics,  and  those  who  hang  for  support  on  their  apron- 
strings,  generally  view  him  as  with  a microscope.  His  failings  are 
carefully  magnified  ; his  good  qualities,  as  carefully  left  unnoticed. 
The  beam  in  the  critic’s  eye  is  nothing  compared  to  the  mote  in  the 
great  Irish  Dean’s.  We  do  not  belong  to  this  narrow  school ; nor 
do  we  fear  to  express  our  good  opinion  of  Swift — the  great  Swift — 
the  honest  Swift — the  charitable  Swift — the  liberal  Swift — the 
patriotic  Swift.  Ilis  eccentricities  must  be  attributed  to  the  un- 
happy disposition  with  which  his  life  was  one  continual  battle,  and 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D . 


125 


to  which,  in  the  end,  he  was  obliged  to  succumb.  His  faults,  like 
straws,  floated  on  the  surface ; his  good  qualities,  like  pearls,  were 
on  the  bottom.  The  instances  of  his  kindness  and  tender  charity 
are  simply  countless.  According  to  his  lights,  he  was  a firm  Chris- 
tian and  a deeply  religious  man.  But  if  there  is  one  quality  that 
exalts  him  more  than  another  it  is  his  fearless  patriotism.  His 
grand  example  nerved  in  after-times  Burke,  Grattan,  Curran,  and 
O’Connell  in  their  long  struggles  for  the  rights  of  the  noble  but 
shamefully  oppressed  people  of  Ireland. 

“No  man,”  says  Dr.  Delaney,  “ever  deserved  better  of  any 
country  than  Swift  did  of  his.  A steady,  persevering,  inflexible 
friend ; a wise,  a watchful,  and  a faithful  counsellor  under  many 
severe  trials  and  bitter  persecutions,  to  the  manifest  hazard  both  of 
his  liberty  and  his  fortune.  He  lived  a blessing,  he  died  a bene- 
factor, and  his  name  will  ever  live  an  honor  to  Ireland,” 


A GRUB  STREET  ELEGY. 

ON  THE  SUPPOSED  DEATH  OF  PARTRIDGE,  THE  ALMANAC-MAKER.  1708. 

Well,  ’tis  as  Bickerstaff 9 has  guess’d, 

Though  we  all  took  it  for  a jest: 

Partridge  is  dead  ! Nay,  more,  he  died 
Ere  he  could  prove  the  good  ’squire  lied. 

Strange  an  astrologer  should  die 
Without  one  wonder  in  the  sky  ; 

Not  one  of  all  his  crony  stars 
To  pay  their  duty  at  his  hearse  ! 

No  meteor,  no  eclipse  appear’d  ! 

No  comet  with  a flaming  beard  ! 

The  sun  has  rose  and  gone  to  bed 
Just  as  if  Partridge  were  not  dead  ; 

Nor  hid  himself  behind  the  moon 
To  make  a dreadful  night  at  noon. 

He  at  fit  periods  walks  through  Aries, 

Howe’er  our  earthly  motion  varies; 


9 “Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esq.,”  was  the  name  under  which  Swift  wrote  a number  of  hu- 
morous predictions  in  1708 ; among  others,  that  “ Partridge,  the  Almanac-Maker,  will 
infallibly  die  upon  the  29th  of  March  next,  about  eleven  at  night,  of  a raging  fever.” 


126 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


And  twice  a year  he’ll  cut  th’  equator, 

As  if  there  had  been  no  such  matter. 

Some  wits  have  wonder’d  what  analogy 
There  is  ’twixt  cobbling 10  and  astrology; 
How  Partridge  made  his  optics  rise 
From  a shoe-sole  to  reach  the  skies. 

A list  the  cobbler’s  temples  ties 
To  keep  the  hair  out  of  his  eyes. 

From  whence  ’tis  plain  the  diadem 
That  princes  wear  derives  from  them; 

And  therefore  crowns  are  nowadays 
Adorn’d  with  golden  stars  and  rays ; 

Which  plainly  shows  the  near  alliance 
’Twixt  cobbling  and  the  planets’  science. 

Besides,  that  slow-paced  sign  Bootes, 

As  ’tis  miscall’d,  we  know  not  who  ’tis  ; 
But  Partridge  ended  all  disputes  : 

He  knew  his  trade,  and  call’d  it  Boots! 11 
The  horned  moon  which  heretofore 
Upon  their  shoes  the  Romans  wore, 

Whose  wideness  kept  their  toes  from  corns. 
And  whence  we  claim  our  shoeing-horns, 
Shows  how  the  art  of  cobbling  bears 
A near  resemblance  to  the  spheres. 

A scrap  of  parchment  hung  by  geometry 
(A  great  refiner  in  barometry) 

Can,  like  the  stars,  foretell  the  weather ; 
And  what  is  parchment  else  but  leather  ? 
Which  an  astrologer  might  use 
Either  for  almanacs  or  shoes. 

Thus  Partridge,  by  his  wit  and  parts. 

At  once  did  practise  both  these  arts  ; 

And  as  the  boding  owl  (or  rather 
The  bat,  because  her  wings  are  leather) 
Steals  from  her  private  cell  by  night, 

And  flies  about  the  candle-light. 

So  learned  Partridge  could  as  well 
Creep  in  the  dark  from  leathern  cell, 

10  Partridge  was  a cobbler.— Swift 

11  See  his  almanac.— Swift. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


127 


And  in  his  fancy  fly  as  far 
To  peep  upon  a twinkling  star. 

Besides,  he  could  confound  the  spheres, 
And  set  the  planets  by  the  ears ; 

To  show  his  skill  he  Mars  could  join 
To  Venus,  in  aspect  malign  ; 

Then  call  in  Mercury  for  aid, 

And  cure  the  wounds  that  Venus  made. 

Great  scholars  have  in  Lucian  read. 
When  Philip,  King  of  Greece,  was  dead, 
His  soul  and  spirit  did  divide. 

And  each  part  took  a different  side  : 

One  rose  a star;  the  other  fell 
Beneath,  and  mended  shoes  in  hell. 

Thus  Partridge  still  shines  in  each  art, 
The  cobbling  and  star-gazing  part, 

And  is  install’d  as  good  a star 
As  any  of  the  Caesars  are. 

Triumphant  star  ! some  pity  show 
On  cobblers  militant  below, 

Whom  roguish  boys,  in  stormy  nights, 
Torment  by  p — g out  their  lights. 

Or  through  a chink  convey  their  smoke 
Enclosed  artificers  to  choke. 

Though  high  exalted  in  thy  sphere, 
May’st  follow  still  thy  calling  there. 

To  thee  the  Bull  would  lend  his  hide, 

By  Phoebus  newly  tanned  and  dried ; 

For  thee  they  Argo’s  hulk  will  tax. 

And  scrape  her  pitchy  sides  for  wax; 

Then  Ariadne  kindly  lends 

Her  braided  hair  to  make  the  ends  ; 

The  points  of  Sagittarius’  dart 
Turns  to  an  awl  by  heavenly  art ; 

And  Vulcan,  wheddled  by  his  wife, 

Will  forge  for  thee  a paring-knife. 

For  want  of  room  by  Virgo’s  side, 
She’ll  strain  a point,  and  sit 12  astride, 


12  “Tibibrachia  contrahit  ingens  Seorpius,”  etc. 


128 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


To  take  thee  kindly  in  between  ; 

And  then  the  signs  will  be  thirteen. 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here,  five  feet  deep,  lies  on  his  back 
A cobbler,  starmonger,  and  quack. 

Who  to  the  stars,  in  pure  good-will. 
Does  to  his  best  look  upward  still. 

Weep,  all  you  customers  that  use 
His  pills,  his  almanacs,  or  shoes  ; 

And  you  that  did  your  fortunes  seek 
Step  to  his  grave  but  once  a week ; 

This  earth,  which  bears  his  body’s  print. 
You’ll  find  has  so  much  virtue  in’t 
That,  I durst  pawn  my  ears,  ’twill  tell 
Whate’er  concerns  you  full  as  well, 

In  physic,  stolen  goods,  or  love. 

As  he  himself  could,  when  above. 


AN  ELEGY 

ON  THE  DEATH  OP  DEMAR,  THE  USURER, 

Who  died  the  6th  of  July,  1720. 

Swift,  with  some  of  his  usual  party,  happened  to  be  in  Mr.  Sheridan’s,  in  Capel 
Street,  when  the  news  of  Demar’s  death  was  brought  to  them,  and  the  elegy 
was  the  joint  composition  of  the  company. 

Know  all  men  by  these  presents,  Death,  the  tamer. 

By  mortgage  has  secured  the  corpse  of  Demar  ; 

Nor  can  four  hundred  thousand  sterling  pound 
Redeem  him  from  his  prison  under  ground. 

His  heirs  might  well,  of  all  his  wealth  possess’d. 

Bestow  to  bury  him  one  iron  chest. 

Plutus,  the  god  of  wealth,  will  joy  to  know 
His  faithful  steward  in  the  shades  below. 

He  walk’d  the  streets  and  wore  a threadbare  cloak; 

He  dined  and  supp’d  at  charge  of  other  folk  ; 

And  by  his  looks,  had  he  held  out  his  palms, 

He  might  be  thought  an  object  fit  for  alms. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


129 


So,  to  the  poor  if  he  refused  his  pelf, 

He  used  them  full  as  kindly  as  himself. 

Where’er  he  went,  he  never  saw  his  betters  ; 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires  were  all  his  humble  debtors ; 
And,  under  hand  and  seal,  the  Irish  nation 
Were  forced  to  own  to  him  their  obligation. 

He  that  could  once  have  half  the  kingdom  bought 
In  half  a minute  is  not  worth  a groat. 

His  coffers  from  the  coffin  could  not  save, 

Nor  all  his  interest  keep  him  from  the  grave. 

A golden  monument  would  not  be  right, 

Because  we  wish  the  earth  upon  him  light. 

0 London  Tavern  ! thou  hast  lost  a friend, 

Though  in  thy  walls  he  ne’er  did  farthing  spend ; 

He  touch’d  the  pence  when  others  touch’d  the  pot  ; 

The  hand  that  sign’d  the  mortgage  paid  the  shot. 

Old  as  he  was,  no  vulgar  known  disease 
On  him  could  ever  boast  a power  to  seize  ; 

“ But  as  he  weigh’d  his  gold,  grim  Death  in  spite 
Cast  in  his  dart,  which  made  three  moidores  light ; 

And  as  he  saw  his  darling  money  fail. 

Blew  his  last  breath  to  sink  the  lighter  scale.” 

He  who  so  long  was  current,  ’twould  be  strange 
If  he  should  now  be  cried  down  since  his  change. 

The  sexton  shall  green  sods  on  thee  bestow  ; 

Alas  ! the  sexton  is  thy  banker  now. 

A dismal  banker  must  that  banker  be 
Who  gives  no  bills  but  of  mortality  ! 

EPITAPH  OH  THE  SAME. 

Beneath  this  verdant  hillock  lies 
Demar,  the  wealthy  and  the  wise. 

His  heirs,  that  he  might  safely  rest, 

Have  put  his  carcass  in  a chest — 

The  very  chest  in  which,  they  sav. 

His  other  self,  his  money,  lay. 

And  if  his  heirs  continue  kind 
To  that  dear  self  he  left  behind, 

I dare  believe  that  four  in  five 
Will  think  his  better  half  alive. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


130 


DR.  SWIFT  TO  HIMSELF. 

ON  ST.  CECILIA’S  DAY. 

Grave  Dean  of  St.  Patrick’s,  how  comes  it  to  pass 
That  you,  who  know  music  no  more  than  an  ass. 
That  you,  who  so  lately  were  writing  of  drapiers, 
Should  lend  your  cathedral  to  players  and  scrapers  ? 
To  act  such  an  opera  once  in  a year. 

So  offensive  to  every  true  Protestant  ear, 

With  trumpets,  and  fiddles,  and  organs,  and  singing, 
Will  sure  the  Pretender  and  Popery  bring  in  ; 

No  Protestant  prelate,  his  Lordship  or  Grace, 

Durst  there  show  his  right  or  most  reverend  face ; 
How  would  it  pollute  their  crosiers  and  rochets 
To  listen  to  minims,  and  quavers,  and  crotchets  ! 13 


AN  ANSWER  TO  A FRIEND’S  QUESTION. 

The  furniture  that  best  doth  please 
St.  Patrick’s  Dean,  good  sir,  are  these: 
The  knife  and  fork  with  which  I eat, 
And  next  the  pot  that  boils  the  meat ; 
The  next  to  be  preferred,  I think, 

Is  the  glass  in  which  I drink ; 

The  shelves  on  which  my  books  I keep, 
And  the  bed  on  which  I sleep  ; 

An  antique  elbow-chair  between, 

Big  enough  to  hold  the  Dean  ; 

And  the  stove  that  gives  delight 
In  the  cold,  bleak,  wintry  night ; 

To  these  we  add  a thing  below 
More  for  use  reserved  than  show — 
These  are  what  the  Dean  do  please ; 

All  superfluous  are  but  these. 


13  The  rest  of  this  piece  is  wanting. 


•She  suAy  o/Xov&.  w/iilb  o'er  /ter  tyre 
Tkr  rosy  rays  of  eveeurey  /ell , 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D.  13 1 

THE  DEAN’S  MANNER  OF  LIVING. 

On  rainy  days  alone  I dine 
Upon  a chick  and  pint  of  wine. 

On  rainy  days  I dine  alone, 

And  pick  my  chicken  to  the  bone ; 

But  this  my  servants  much  enrages — 

No  scraps  remain  to  save  board- wages» 

In  weather  fine  I nothing  spend. 

But  often  sponge  upon  a friend ; 

Yet,  where  he’s  not  so  rich  as  I, 

I pay  my  club,  and  so  good-by* 


TO  STELLA.14 
ON  HER  BIRTHDAY,  1721-2. 

While,  Stella,  to  your  lasting  praise 
The  Muse  her  annual  tribute  pays — 

While  I assign  myself  a task 
Which  you  expect,  but  scorn  to  ask— 

If  I perform  this  task  with  pain, 

Let  me  of  partial  fate  complain. 

You  every  year  the  debt  enlarge, 

I grow  less  equal  to  the  charge  ; 

In  you  each  virtue  brighter  shines, 

But  my  poetic  vein  declines. 

My  harp  will  soon  in  vain  be  strung, 

And  all  your  virtues  left  unsung ; 

For  none  among  the  upstart  race 
Of  poets  dare  assume  my  place. 

Your  worth  will  be  to  them  unknown— 

They  must  have  Stellas  of  their  own  ; 

And  thus,  my  stock  of  wit  decay’d, 

I,  dying,  leave  the  debt  unpaid, 

Unless  Delany,  as  my  heir, 

Will  answer  for  the  whole  arrear. 

14  This  was  Swift’s  poetical  name  for  Miss  Johnson,  Stella  means  a star. 


T 32 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


AN  EXCELLENT  NEW  SONG. 

UPON  THE  DECLARATIONS  OF  THE  SEVERAL  CORPORATIONS  OF  THE  CITY  OF  DUBLIN 
AGAINST  WOOD’S  HALFPENCE. 

(To  the  tune  of  “London  is  a Fine  Town,”  etc.) ’ 

Oil  ! Dublin  is  a fine  town 
And  a gallant  city, 

For  Wood’s  trash  is  tumbled  down  ; 

Come  listen  to  my  ditty. 

In  full  assembly  all  did  meet 
Of  every  corporation, 

From  every  lane  and  every  street,, 

To  save  the  sinking  nation. 

The  bankers  would  not  let  it  pass 
For  to  be  Wood’s  tellers. 

Instead  of  gold  to  count  his  brass, 

And  fill  their  small-beer  cellars. 

And,  next  to  them,  to  take  his  coin 
The  Gild  would  not  submit  ; 

They  all  did  go,  and  all  did  join. 

And  so  their  names  they  writ. 

The  brewers  met  within  their  hall, 

And  spoke  in  lofty  strains ; 

These  halfpence  shall  not  pass  at  all : 

They  want  so  many  grains. 

The  tailors  came  upon  this  pinch, 

And  wish’d  the  dog  in  hell ; 

Should  we  give  this  same  Woods  an  inch. 

We  know  he’d  take  an  ell. 

But  now  the  noble  clothiers 
Of  honor  and  renown, 

If  they  take  Wood’s  halfpence, 

They  will  be  all  cast  down. 

The  shoemakers  came  on  the  next, 

And  said  they  would  much  rather 

Than  be  by  Wood’s  copper  vext 
Take  money  stamped  on  leather. 


Jonathan  Swift , D,D. 


In  *y 

OJ 

The  chandlers  next  in  order  came, 

And  what  they  said  was  right : 

They  hoped  the  rogue  that  laid  the  scheme 
Would  soon  be  brought  to  light ; 

And  that  if  Woods  were  now  withstood, 

To  his  eternal  scandal, 

That  twenty  of  these  halfpence  should 
Not.  buy  a farthing  candle. 

The  butchers  then,  those  men  so  brave, 

Spoke  thus,  and  with  a frown  : 

Should  Woods,  that  cunning,  scoundrel,  knave? 

Come  here,  we’d  knock  him  down  ; 

For  any  rogue  that  comes  to  truck 
And  trick  away  our  trade 
Deserves  not  only  to  be  stuck, 

But  also  to  be  flay’d. 

The  bankers  in  a ferment  were, 

And  wisely  shook  their  head ; 

Should  these  brass  tokens  once  come  here. 

We’d  all  have  lost  our  bread. 

It  set  the  very  tinkers  mad, 

The  baseness  of  the  metal, 

Because,  they  said,  it  was  so  bad 
It  would  not  mend  a kettle. 

The  carpenters  and  joiners  stood 
Confounded  in  a maze  ; 

They  seemed  to  be  all  in  a wood, 

And  so  they  went  their  ways. 

This  coin  how  well  could  we  employ  it 
In  raising  of  a statue 

To  those  brave  men  that  would  destroy  it, 

And  then,  old  Woods,  have  at  you. 


134  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

God  prosper  long  our  tradesmen,  then. 
And  so  he  will,  I hope  ! 

May  they  be  still  such  honest  men 
When  Woods  has  got  a rope. 


EPIGRAM,  April,  1735. 

In  answer  to  the  Dean’s  verses  on  his  own  deafness. 

What  though  the  Dean  hears  not  the  knell 
Of  the  next  church’s  passing  hell ; 

What  though  the  thunder  from  a cloud. 

Or  that  from  female  tongue  more  loud. 
Alarm  not ; at  the  Drapier’s  ear 
Chink  hut  Wood’s  halfpence,  and  he’ll  hear. 


THE  EPITAPH  ON  JUDGE  BOAT, 

Here  lies  Judge  Boat  within  a coffin  ; 

Pray,  gentlefolks,  forbear  your  scoffing. 

A Boat  a judge  ! Yes ; where’s  the  blunder  ? 
A wooden  judge  is  no  such  wonder. 

And  in  his  robes  you  must  agree 
No  boat  was  better  deck’d  than  he. 

’Tis  needless  to  describe  him  fuller ; 

In  short,  he  was  an  able  sculler. 


EPITAPH, 

IN  BERKELEY  CHURCHYARD,  GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 

Here  lies  the  Earl  of  Suffolk’s  fool, 
Men  called  him  Dicky  Pearce  ; 

His  folly  served  to  make  fools  laugh 
When  wit  and  mirth  were  scarce. 

Poor  Dick,  alas  ! is  dead  and  gone 
What  signifies  to  cry  ? 

Dickies  enough  are  still  behind 
To  laugh  at  by  and  by. 


Buried  June  18,  1728,  aged  63. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D . 


135 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  SWIFT.15 

Written  in  November,  1731. 

Occasioned  by  reading  the  following  maxim  in  Rochefoucauld  : “ Dans  l’adver- 
site  de  nos  meilleurs  amis  nous  trouvons  tou jours  quelque  chose  qui  ne  nous 
deplait  pas.” 

“ In  the  adversity  of  our  best  friends  we  always  find  something  that  does  not  displease 
us.” 

As  Rochefoucauld,  his  maxims  drew 
From  nature.  I believe  them  true. 

They  argue  no  corrupted  mind 
In  him  ; the  fault  is  in  mankind. 

This  maxim,  more  than  all  the  rest. 

Is  thought  too  base  for  human  breast : 

“ In  all  distresses  of  our  friends 
"We  first  consult  our  private  ends  ; 

While  nature,  kindly  bent  to  ease  us, 

Points  out  some  circumstance  to  please  us. 

If  this,  perhaps,  your  patience  move, 

Let  reason  and  experience  prove. 

We  all  behold  with  envious  eyes 
Our  equals  raised  above  our  size. 

Who  would  not  at  a crowded  show 
Stand  high  himself,  keep  others  low  ? 

I love  my  friend  as  well  as  you : 

But  why  should  he  obstruct  my  view  P 
Then  let  me  have  the  higher  post, 

Suppose  it  but  an  inch  at  most. 

If  in  a battle  you  should  find 
One  whom  you  love  of  all  mankind 
Had  some  heroic  action  done, 

A champion  kill’d,  or  trophy  won, 

Rather  than  thus  be  overtopp’d, 

Would  you  not  wish  his  laurels  cropped  ? 

Dear  honest  Ned  is  in  the  gout, 

Lies  rack’d  with  pain,  and  you  without. 

How  patiently  you  hear  him  groan  ! 

How  glad  the  case  is  not  your  own  ! 

is  “ The  verses  on  his  death,  and  the  “ Rhapsody  on  Poetry,”  are  the  best  of  Swift’s 
poetical  productions,  though  they  cannot  be  called  true  poetry.”— Dr.  Warton. 


I3<5 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


What  poet  would  not  grieve  to  see 
His  brother  write  as  well  as  he. 

But,  rather  than  they  should  excel, 

Would  wish  his  rivals  all  in  hell  ? 

Her  end  when  Emulation  misses. 

She  turns  to  Envy,  stings  and  hisses ; 

The  strongest  friendship  yields  to  pride. 
Unless  the  odds  be  on  our  side. 

Vain  humankind  ! fantastic  race  ! 

Thy  various  follies  who  can  trace  ? 

Self-love,  ambition,  envy,  pride. 

Their  empire  in  our  hearts  divide  ; 

Give  others  riches,  power,  and  station, 

’Tis  all  on  me  a usurpation. 

I have  no  title  to  aspire. 

Yet  when  you  sink  I seem  the  higher. 

In  Pope  I cannot  read  a line, 

But  with  a sigh  I wish  it  mine. 

When  he  can  in  one  couplet  fix 
More  sense  than  I can  do  in  six, 

It  gives  me  such  a jealous  fit, 

I cry,  “ Pox  take  him  and  his  wit  ! ” 

I grieve  to  be  outdone  by  Gay 
In  my  own,  humorous,  biting  way. 

Arbuthnot  is  no  more  my  friend, 

Who  dares  to  irony  pretend. 

Which  I was  born  to  introduce. 

Refined  it  first,  and  show’d  its  use. 

St.  John,  as  well  as  Pulteney,  knows 
That  I had  some  repute  for  prose, 

And,  till  they  drove  me  out  of  date, 

Could  maul  a minister  of  state. 

If  they  have  mortified  my  pride, 

And  made  me  throw  my  pen  aside — 

If  with  such  talents  Heaven  has  bless’d  ’em — 
Have  I not  reason  to  detest  ’em  ? 

To  all  my  foes,  dear  Fortune,  send 
Thy  gifts,  but  never  to  my  friend. 

I tamely  can  endure  the  first ; 

But  this  with  envy  makes  me  burst. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


l37 


Thus  much  may  serve  by  way  of  proem  . 
Proceed  we  therefore  to  our  poem. 

The  time  is  not  remote  when  I 
Must,  by  the  course  of  nature,  die  ; 

When,  I foresee,  my  special  friends 
Will  try  to  find  their  private  ends, 

And,  though  ’tis  hardly  understood 
Which  way  my  death  can  do  them  good. 
Yet  thus,  methinks,  I hear  them  speak  : 
“See  how  the  Dean  begins  to  break  ! 

Poor  gentleman,  he  droops  apace  ! 

You  plainly  find  it  in  his  face. 

That  old  vertigo  in  his  head 
Will  never  leave  him  till  he’s  dead. 

Besides,  his  memory  decays ; 

He  recollects  not  what  he  says ; 

He  cannot  call  his  friends  to  mind ; 

Forgets  the  place  where  last  he  dined  ; 

Plies  you  with  stories  o’er  and  o’er  ; 

He  told  them  fifty  times  before. 

How  does  he  fancy  we  can  sit 
To  hear  his  out-of-fashion  wit  ? 

But  he  takes  up  with  younger  folks, 

Who  for  his  wine  will  bear  his  jokes. 

Faith  ! he  must  make  his  stories  shorter, 

Or  change  his  comrades  once  a quarter  ; 

In  half  the  time  he  talks  them  round 
There  must  another  set  be  found. 

“ For  poetry  he’s  past  his  prime ; 

He  takes  an  hour  to  find  a rhyme. 

His  fire  is  out,  his  wit  decay’d, 

His  fancy  sunk,  his  Muse  a jade. 

I’d  have  him  throw  away  his  pen  ; 

But  there’s  no  talking  to  some  men  !” 

And  then  their  tenderness  appears 
By  adding  largely  to  my  years  : 

“ He’s  older  than  he  would  be  reckoned. 
And  well  remembers  Charles  the  Second. 

He  hardly  drinks  a pint  of  wine, 

And  that,  I doubt,  is  no  good  sign. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


138 


His  stomach,  too,  begins  to  fail ; 

Last  year  we  thought  him  strong  and  hale, 

But  now  he’s  quite  another  thing; 

I wish  he  may  hold  out  till  spring  ! ” 

They  hug  themselves,  and  reason  thus : 

“It  is  not  yet  so  bad  with  us  ! ” 

In  such  a case  they  talk  in  tropes. 

And  by  their  fears  express  their  hopes. 

Some  great  misfortune  to  portend, 

No  enemy  can  match  a friend. 

With  all  the  kindness  they  profess, 

The  merit  of  a lucky  guess 

(When  daily  how-d’yes  come  of  course, 

And  servants  answer,  “ Worse  and  worse  !”) 
Would  please  them  better  than  to  tell 
That  “ God  be  praised,  the  Dean  is  well.” 

Then  he  who  prophesied  the  best 
Approves  his  foresight  to  the  rest : 

“You  know  I always  fear’d  the  worst. 

And  often  told  you  so  at  first.” 

He'd  rather  choose  that  I should  die 
Than  his  prediction  prove  a lie. 

Not  one  foretells  I shall  recover  ; 

But  all  agree  to  give  me  over. 

Yet,  should  some  neighbor  feel  a pain 
Just  in  the  parts  where  I complain, 

How  many  a message  would  he  send  ! 

What  hearty  prayers  that  I should  mend  ! 
Enquire  what  regimen  I kept, 

What  gave  me  ease,  and  how  I slept. 

And  more  lament  when  I was  dead 
Than  all  the  snivellers  round  my  bed. 

My  good  companions,  never  fear  ; 

For  though  you  may  mistake  a year. 

Though  your  prognostics  run  too  fast 
They  must  be  verified  at  last. 

Behold  the  fatal  day  arrive  ! 

“ How  is  the  Dean  ? ” “ He’s  just  alive.” 

Now  the  departing  prayer  is  read } 

“He  hardly  breathes.”  “ The  Dean  is  dead  !” 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


Before  the  passing  bell  begun 
The  news  through  half  the  town  is  run. 

“ Oh  ! may  we  all  for  death  prepare. 

What  has  he  left  ? and  who’s  his  heir  ?” 

“ I know  no  more  than  what  the  news  is ; 
’Tis  all  bequeathed  to  public  uses.” 

“ To  public  uses  ! There’s  a whim  ! 
What  had  the  public  done  for  him  ? 

Mere  envy,  avarice,  and  pride  ! 

He  gave  it  all — but  first  he  died. 

And  had  the  Dean  in  all  the  nation 
Ho  worthy  friend,  no  poor  relation  ? 

So  ready  to  do  strangers  good, 

Forgetting  his  own  flesh  and  blood  ! ” 

How  Grub  Street  wits  are  all  employed 
With  elegies  the  town  is  cloy’d  ; 

Some  paragraph  in  every  paper 
To  curse  the  Dean  or  bless  the  Drapier. 

The  doctors,  tender  of  their  fame. 
Wisely  on  me  lay  all  the  blame: 

“We  must  confess  his  case  was  nice  ; 

But  he  would  never  take  advice. 

Had  he  been  ruled,  for  aught  appears 
He  might  have  lived  these  twenty  years. 
For  when  we  open’d  him  we  found 
That  all  his  vital  parts  were  sound.  ” 
From  Dublin  soon  to  London  spread, 
’Tis  told  at  court  “ The  Dean  is  dead,” 
And  Lady  Suffolk,17  in  the  spleen, 

Kuns  laughing  up  to  tell  the  queen. 

The  queen,  so  gracious,  mild,  and  good, 
Cries,  “ Is  he  gone  ? ’Tis  time  he  should 
He’s  dead,  you  say  ; then  let  him  rot ! 

I’m  glad  the  medals 18  were  forgot. 

I promised  him,  I own  ; but  when  ? 

I only  was  the  princess  then ; 


The  Dean  supposed  himself  to  die  in  Ireland,  where  he  was  born. 
Mrs.  Howard,  at  one  time  a favorite  with  the  Dean. 

The  medals  were  to  be  sent  to  the  Dean  in  four  months  ; but  , 


i 40 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


But  now,  as  consort  of  the  king, 

You  know  ’tis  quite  another  thing.” 

Now  Chartres,19  at  Sir  Robert’s  levee, 

Tells  with  a sneer  the  tidings  heavy. 

“ Why,  if  he  died  without  his  shoes,” 
Cries  Bob, 20  “ I’m  sorry  for  the  news. 

Oh  ! were  the  wretch  but  living  still, 

And  in  his  place  my  good  friend  Will,21 
Or  had  a mitre  on  his  head. 

Provided  Bolingbroke 22  were  dead.” 

Now  Curll23  his  shop  from  rubbish  drains; 
Three  genuine  tomes  of  Swift’s  remains  ! 
And  then  to  make  them  pass  the  glibber. 
Revised  by  Tibbalds,  Moore,  and  Cibber.24 
He’ll  treat  me  as  he  does  my  betters : 
Publish  my  will,  my  life,  my  letters  ;26 
Revive  the  libels  born  to  die, 

Which  Pope  must  bear  as  well  as  I. 

Here  shift  the  scene,  to  represent 
How  those  I love  my  death  lament. 

Poor  Pope  would  grieve  a month,  and  Gay 
A week,  and  Arbuthnot  a day. 

St.  John  himself  will  scarce  forbear 
To  bite  his  pen  and  drop  a tear. 

The  rest  will  give  a shrug,  and  cry, 

“ I’m  sorry — but  we  all  must  die ! ” 
Indifference,  clad  in  Wisdom’s  guise. 

All  fortitude  of  mind  supplies ; 


19  Chartres,  an  infamous  scoundrel,  grown  from  a footboy  to  a prodigious  fortune,  both 
in  England  and  Scotland. 

20  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  Chief  Minister  of  State,  treated  the  Dean  in  1726  with  great  dis- 
tinction ; invited  him  to  dinner  at  Chelsea,  with  the  Dean’s  friends  chosen  on  purpose  ; 
appointed  an  hour  to  talk  with  him  on  Ireland,  to  which  kingdom  and  people  the  Dean 
found  him  no  great  friend. 

21  Mr.  William  Pultney,  from  being  Sir  Robert’s  intimate  friend,  detesting  his  adminis- 
tration, opposed  his  measures,  and  joined  with  my  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

22  Henry  St.  John,  Lord  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  Secretary  of  State  to  Queen  Anne,  of 
blessed  memory. 

23  Curll  hath  been  the  most  infamous  bookseller  of  any  age  or  country. 

24  Three  stupid  verse-writers  in  London  ; the  last,  to  the  shame  of  the  court  and  the 
disgrace  to  wit  and  learning,  was  made  Laureate. 

25  Curll,  notoriously  infamous  for  publishing  the  lives,  letters,  and  last  wills  and  testa- 
ments of  the  nobility  and  ministers  of  state,  as  well  as  of  all  the  rogues  who  are  hanged 
at  Tyburn. 


Jonathan  Swifty  D.D . 


14 1 


For  how  can  stony  bowels  melt 
In  those  who  never  pity  felt  ? 

When  we  are  lash’d,  they  kiss  the  rod, 

Resigning  to  the  will  of  G-od. 

The  fools,  my  juniors  by  a year. 

Are  tortur’d  with  suspense  and  fear, 

Who  wisely  thought  my  age  a screen 
When  death  approach’d  to  stand  between , 

The  screen  removed,  their  hearts  are  trembling  ; 
They  mourn  for  me  without  dissembling. 

My  female  friends,  whose  tender  hearts 
Have  better  learn’d  to  act  their  parts. 

Receive  the  news  in  doleful  dumps  : 

“ The  Dean  is  dead  ! (Pray,  what  is  trumps  ?) 
Then  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! 

(Ladies,  I’ll  venture  for  the  vole. ) 

Six  deans,  they  say,  must  bear  the  pall. 

(I  wish  I knew  what  king  to  call.) 

Madam,  your  husband  will  attend 
The  funeral  of  so  good  a friend. 

Ho,  madam,  ’tis  a shocking  sight ; 

And  he’s  engaged  to-morrow  night. 

My  Lady  Club  will  take  it  ill 
If  he  should  fail  her  at  quadrille. 

He  loved  the  Dean  (I  lead  a heart) ; 

But  dearest  friends,  they  say,  must  part. 

His  time  was  come ; he  ran  his  race  ; 

We  hope  he’s  in  a better  place.” 

Why  do  we  grieve  that  friends  should  die  ? 

Ho  loss  more  easy  to  supply. 

One  year  is  past ; a different  scene  ! 

Ho  further  mention  of  the  Dean, 

Who  now,  alas  ! no  more  is  miss’d 
Than  if  he  never  did  exist. 

Where’s  now  this  favorite  of  Apollo  ? 

Departed — and  his  works  must  follow, 

Must  undergo  the  common  fate ; 

His  kind  of  wit  is  out  of  date. 

Some  country  squire  to  Lintot  goes, 

Enquires  for  “ Swift  inVerse  and  Prose.” 


142 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Says  Lintot,  “I  have  heard  the  name; 

He  died  a year  ago  ?” — “ The  same.” 

He  searches  all  the  shops  in  vain. 

“ Sir,  you  may  find  them  in  Duck  Lane; 2* 

I sent  them  with  a load  of  hooks, 

Last  Monday,  to  the  pastry-cook’s. 

To  fancy  they  could  live  a year  ! 

I find  you’re  hut  a stranger  here. 

The  Dean  was  famous  in  his  time, 

And  had  a kind  of  knack  at  rhyme. 

His  way  of  writing  now  is  past ; 

The  town  has  got  a better  taste. 

I keep  no  antiquated  stuff. 

But  spick  and  span  I have  enough. 

Pray  do  but  give  me  leave  to  show  ’em  ; 

Here’s  Colley  Cibber’s  birthday  poem. 

This  ode  you  never  yet  have  seen, 

By  Stephen  Duck,  upon  the  queen. 

Then  here’s  a letter  finely  penn’d 
Against  the  Craftsman  and  his  friend  ; 

It  clearly  shows  that  all  reflection 
On  ministers  is  disaffection. 

Next,  here’s  Sir  Robert’s  vindication,27 
And  Mr.  Henley’s  last  oration.28 
The  hawkers  have  not  got  them  yet ; 

Your  honor  please  to  buy  a set  ? 

“ Here’s  Wolston’s29  tracts,  the  twelfth  edition-' 
’Tis  read  by  every  politician  ; 

The  country  members,  when  in  town. 

To  all  their  boroughs  send  them  down. 

You  never  met  a thing  so  smart ; 

The  courtiers  have  them  all  by  heart ; 

Those  maids  of  honor  who  can  read 
Are  taught  to  use  them  for  their  creed. 


2e  Where  old  books  are  sold. 

27  Walpole  had  a set  of  party  scribblers,  who  did  nothing  but  write  in  his  defence. 

2?  Henley,  a clergyman,  who,  wanting  both  merit  and  luck  to  get  preferment,  or  even 
to  keep  his  curacy  in  the  Established  Church,  formed  a new  conventicle,  which  he  called 
an  Oratory. 

29  Wolston,  a clergyman,  who,  for  want  of  bread,  in  several  treatises,  in  the  most  blas- 
phemous manner,  attempted  to  turn  our  Saviour's  miracles  into  ridicule. 


yonathan  Swift,  D.D. 


43 


The  reverend  author’s  good  intention 
Has  been  rewarded  with  a pension. 30 
He  does  an  honor  to  his  gown 
By  bravely  running  priestcraft  down. 

He  shows,  as  sure  as  God’s  in  Gloucester, 
That  Moses  was  a grand  impostor  ; 

That  all  his  miracles  were  cheats, 
Perform’d  as  jugglers  do  their  feats. 

The  church  had  never  such  a writer  ; 

A shame  he  has  not  got  a mitre  ! ” 
Suppose  me  dead,  and  then  suppose 
A club  assembled  at  the  Rose, 

Where,  from  discourse  of  this  and  that, 

I grow  the  subject  of  their  chat ; 

And  while  they  toss  my  name  about, 
With  favor  some,  and  some  without, 

One  quite  indifferent  in  the  cause 
My  character  impartial  draws  : 

“ The  Dean,  if  we  believe  report, 

Was  never  ill-received  at  court. 

As  for  his  works  in  verse  and  prose, 

I own  myself  no  judge  of  those, 

Nor  can  I tell  what  critics  thought  ’em  ; 
But  this  I know,  all  people  bought  ’em. 
As  with  a moral  view  design’d 
To  cure  the  vices  of  mankind, 

His-  vein,  ironically  grave. 

Expos’d  the  fool  and  lash’d  the  knave. 

To  steal  a hint  was  never  known, 

But  what  he  writ  was  all  his  own. 

“ He  never  thought  an  honor  done  him 
Because  a duke  was  proud  to  own  him ; 
Would  rather  slip  aside  and  choose 
To  talk  with  wits  in  dirty  shoes ; 

Despised  the  fools  with  stars  and  garters 
So  often  seen  caressing  Chartres. 

He  never  courted  men  in  station  ; 

No  persous  held  in  admiration; 


80  Wolston  is  here  confounded  with  Woolaston. 


144 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Of  no  man’s  greatness  was  afraid, 

Because  he  sought  for  no  man’s  aid. 
Though  trusted  long  in  great  affairs, 

He  gave  himself  no  haughty  airs  ; 

Without  regarding  private  ends, 

Spent  all  his  credit  for  his  friends, 

And  only  chose  the  wise  and  good — 

Ho  flatterers ; no  allies  in  blood  ; 

But  succor’d  virtue  in  distress. 

And  seldom  fail’d  of  good  success, 

As  numbers  in  their  hearts  must  own, 

Who  but  for  him  had  been  unknown.*1 
“ With  princes  kept  a due  decorum. 

But  never  stood  in  awe  before  ’em. 

He  follow’d  David’s  lesson  just — 

In  princes  never  put  thy  trust ; 

And  would  you  make  him  truly  sour, 
Provoke  him  with  a slave  in  power. 

The  Irish  Senate  if  you  named, 

With  what  impatience  he  declaim’d  ! 

Fair  Liberty  ’ was  all  his  cry, 

For  her  he  stood  prepared  to  die  ; 

For  her  he  boldly  stood  alone  ; 

For  her  he  oft  exposed  his  own. 

Two  kingdoms,32  just  as  faction  led, 

Had  set  a price  upon  his  head  ; 

But  not  a traitor  could  be  found 
Could  sell  him  for  six  hundred  pound. 

“Had  he  but  spared  his  tongue  and  pen. 
He  might  have  rose  like  other  men  ; 

But  power  was  never  in  his  thought. 

And  wealth  he  valued  not  a groat. 


81  Dr.  Delany,  in  the  close  of  his  eighth  letter,  after  having  enumerated  the  friends  with 
whom  the  Dean  lived  in  the  greatest  intimacy,  very  handsomely  applies  this  passage  to 
himself. 

32  In  1713  the  queen  was  prevailed  with,  by  an  address  from  the  House  of  Lords  in  Eng- 
land, to  publish  a proclamation,  promising  £300  to  discover  the  author  of  a pamphlet 
called  “The  Public  Spirit  of  the  Whigs  ” ; and  in  Ireland,  in  the  year  1724,  Lord  Carteret, 
at  his  first  coming  into  the  Government,  was  prevailed  on  to  issue  a proclamation  for 
promising  the  like  reward  of  £300  to  any  person  who  would  discover  the  author  of  a pam- 
phlet called  “ The  Drapier  s Fourth  Letter.” 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


145 


Ingratitude  he  often  found, 

And  pitied  those  who  meant  the  wound  ; 

But  kept  the  tenor  of  his  mind. 

To  merit  well  of  humankind  ; 

Nor  made  a sacrifice  of  those 
Who  still  were  true  to  please  his  foes. 

He  labor’d  many  a fruitless  hour 
To  reconcile  his  friends  in  power ; 

Saw  mischief  by  a faction  brewing. 

While  they  pursued  each  other’s  ruin. 

But  finding  vain  was  all  his  care, 

He  left  the  court  in  mere  despair.33 

“ And  oh  ! how  short  are  human  schemes. 
Here  ended  all  our  golden  dreams. 

What  St.  John’s  skill  in  state  affairs. 

What  Ormond’s  valor,  Oxford’s  cares, 

To  save  their  sinking  country  lent, 

Was  all  destroyed  by  one  event. 

Too  soon  that  precious  life  was  ended. 

On  which  alone  our  weal  depended.84 
When  up  a dangerous  faction  starts,36 
With  wrath  and  vengeance  in  their  hearts ; 
By  solemn  league  and  covenant  bound 
To  ruin,  slaughter,  and  confound  ; 

To  turn  religion  to  a fable. 

And  make  the  Government  a Babel ; 

Pervert  the  laws,  disgrace  the  gown — 
Corrupt  the  senate,  rob  the  crown  ; 

To  sacrifice  Old  England’s  glory, 

And  make  her  infamous  in  story — 

When  such  a tempest  shook  the  land. 

How  could  unguarded  Virtue  stand  ? 

With  horror,  grief,  despair,  the  Dean 
Beheld  the  dire  destructive  scene  ; 

His  friends  in  exile  or  the  Tower, 

Himself 36  within  the  frown  of  power  ; 


18  Queen  Ann’s  ministry  fell  to  variance  from  the  first  year  after  its  commencement. 
34  In  the  height  of  the  quarrel  between  the  ministers  the  queen  died,  August  1,  171A. 
5,6  On  the  queen's  demise  the  Whigs  were  restored  to  power. 
s«  Upon  the  queen’s  death  the  Dean  returned  to  Dublin. 


i* 


146  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

Pursued  by  base  envenom’d  pens 
Far  to  the  land  of  saints  and  fens — 

A servile  race  in  folly  nursed, 

Who  truckle  most  when  treated  worst. 

“ By  innocence  and  resolution 
He  bore  continual  persecution, 

While  numbers  to  preferment  rose 
Whose  merits  were  to  be  his  foes  ; 

When  even  his  own  familiar  friends, 
Intent  upon  their  private  ends. 

Like  renegadoes  now  he  feels 
Against  him  lifting  up  their  heels. 

“The  Dean  did  by  his  pen  defeat 
An  infamous,  destructive  cheat ; 37 
Taught  fools  their  interest  how  to  know, 
And  gave  them  arms  to  ward  the  blow. 
Envy  has  own’d  it  was  his  doing 
To  save  that  hapless  land  from  ruin  : 
While  they  who  at  the  steerage  stood, 
And  reap’d  the  profit,  sought  his  blood. 

“ To  save  them  from  their  evil  fate 
In  him  was  held  a crime  of  state. 

A wicked  monster  on  the  bench,38 
Whose  fury  blood  could  never  quench — 
As  vile  and  profligate  a villain 
As  modern  Scroggs  or  old  Tresilian  ; 39 
Who  long  all  justice  had  discarded, 

Nor  fear’d  he  G-od,  nor  man  regarded, 
Vow’d  on  the  Dean  his  rage  to  vent. 

And  make  him  of  his  zeal  repent ; 

But  Heaven  his  innocence  defends, 

The  grateful  people  stand  his  friends. 
Not  strains  of  law,  nor  judge’s  frown, 
Nor  topics  brought  to  please  the  crown, 


37  Wood,  a hardware  man  from  England,  had  a patent  for  coining  copper  halfpence  for 
Ireland,  to  the  sum  of  £180,000  which,  in  the  consequence,  must  have  left  that  kingdom 
without  gold  or  silver. 
ss  Whitshee  was  then  Chief-Justice. 

39  Sir  William  Scroggs,  Chief-Justioe  of  the  King’s  Bench  in  the  reign  of  King  Charles  II. 
and  Sir  Robert  Tresilian,  Chief-Justice  of  England  in  the  time  of  Richard  II. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


147 


Nor  witness  hired,  nor  jury  pick’d, 

Prevail  to  bring  him  in  convict. 

“ In  exile,  with  a steady  heart, 

He  spent  his  life’s  declining  part, 

Where  folly,  pride,  and  faction  sway, 
Remote  from  St.  John,  Pope,  and  Gay. 
His  friendships  there,  to  few  confined, 
Were  always  of  the  middling  kind — 

No  fools  of  rank,  a mongrel  breed, 

Who  fain  would  pass  for  lords  indeed ; 
Where  titles  give  no  right  or  power, 

And  peerage  is  a wither’d  flower ; 

He  would  have  held  it  a disgrace 
If  such  a wretch  had  known  his  face. 

On  rural  squires,  that  kingdom’s  bane. 

He  vented  oft  his  wrath  in  vain ; 

. . . squires  to  market  brought, 

Who  sell  their  souls  and  ...  for  naught. 
The  ...  go  joyful  back, 

The  . . . the  church  their  tenants  rack, 
Go  snacks  with  . . . 

And  keep  the  peace  to  pick  up  fees ; 

In  every  job  to  have  a share, 

A jail  or  turnpike  to  repair, 

And  turn  the  tax  for  public  roads 
Commodious  to  their  own  abodes. 

“ Perhaps  I may  allow  the  Dean 
Had  too  much  satire  in  his  vein, 

And  seemed  determined  not  to  starve  it. 
Because  no  age  could  more  deserve  it. 

Yet  malice  never  was  his  aim  ; 

He  lashed  the  vice,  but  spared  the  name ; 

No  individual  could  resent 

Where  thousands  equally  were  meant. 

His  satire  points  at  no  defect 
But  what  all  mortals  may  correct ; 

For  he  abhorr’d  that  senseless  tribe 
Who  call  it  humor  when  they  gibe  : 

He  spared  a hump  or  crooked  nose 
Whose  owners  set  not  up  for  beaux. 


148  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

True  genuine  dulness  moved  his  pity. 
Unless  it  offered  to  be  witty. 

Those  who  their  ignorance  confess’d 
He  ne’er  offended  with  a jest; 

But  laugh’d  to  hear  an  idiot  quote 
A verse  from  Horace  learned  by  rote. 

“ He  knew  a hundred  pleasing  stories. 
With  all  the  turns  of  Whigs  and  Tories ; 
Was  cheerful  to  his  dying  day, 

And  friends  would  let  him  have  his  way. 

“ He  gave  the  little  wealth  he  had 
To  build  a house  for  fools  and  mad ; 

And  show’d  by  one  satiric  touch 
Ho  nation  wanted  it  so  much. 

That  kingdom  he  had  left  his  debtor ; 

I wish  it  soon  may  have  a better.” 


GULLIVER’S  TRAVELS. 

A VOYAGE  TO  LILLIPUT. 

Gulliver  gives  some  account  of  himself  and  family — His  first  inducements  to 
travel — He  is  shipwrecked  and  swims  for  his  life — Gets  safe  on  shore  in  the 
country  of  Lilli  put — Is  made  a prisoner  and  carried  up  the  country. 

My  father  had  a small  estate  in  Nottinghamshire  ; I was  the 
third  of  five  sons.  He  sent  me  to  Emanuel  College,  in  Cambridge, 
at  fourteen  years  old,  where  I resided  three  years,  and  applied  my- 
self close  to  my  studies  ; but  the  charge  of  maintaining  me,  al- 
though I had  a very  scanty  allowance,  being  too  great  for  a narrow 
fortune,  I was  bound  apprentice  to  Mr.  James  Bates,  an  eminent 
surgeon  in  London,  with  whom  I continued  four  years  ; my  father 
now  and  then  sending  me  small  sums  of  money,  I laid  them  out  in 
learning  navigation  and  other  parts  of  the  mathematics  useful  to 
those  who  intend  to  travel,  as  I always  believed  it  would  be,  some 
time  or  other,  my  fortune  to  do.  When  I left  Mr.  Bates  I went 
down  to  my  father,  where,  by  the  assistance  of  him  and  my  Uncle 
John,  and  some  other  relations,  I got  forty  pounds,  and  a promise 
of  thirty  pounds  a year  to  maintain  me  at  Leyden.  There  I studied 
physic  two  years  and  seven  months,  knowing  it  would  be  useful  in 
long  voyages. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


149 


Soon  after  my  return  from  Leyden  I was  recommended  by  my 
good  master,  Mr.  Bates,  to  be  surgeon  to  the  Swallow , Captain 
Abraham  Pannel,  commander,  with  whom  I continued  three  years 
and  a half,  making  a voyage  or  two  into  the  Levant  and  some  other 
parts.  When  I came  back  I resolved  to  settle  in  London,  to  which 
Mr.  Bates,  my  master,  encouraged  me,  and  by  him  I was  recom- 
mended to  several  patients.  I took  part  of  a small  house  in  the 
Old  Jewry,  and,  being  advised  to  alter  my  condition,  I married 
Miss  Mary  Burton,  second  daughter  to  Mr.  Edmund  Burton,  hosier, 
in  Newgate  Street,  with  whom  I received  four  hundred  pounds  for 
a portion. 

But  my  good  master,  Bates,  dying  in  two  years  after,  and  I having 
few  friends,  my  business  began  to  fail ; for  my  conscience  would 
not  suffer  me  to  imitate  the  bad  practice  of  too  many  among  my 
brethren.  Having  therefore  consulted  with  my  wife  and  some  of 
my  acquaintances,  I determined  to  go  again  to  sea.  I was  surgeon 
successively  in  two  ships,  and  made  several  voyages,  for  six  years,  to 
the  East  and  West  Indies,  by  which  I got  some  addition  to  my  for- 
tune. My  hours  of  leisure  I spent  in  reading  the  best  authors, 
ancient  and  modern,  being  always  provided  with  a good  number  of 
books,  and,  when  I was  ashore,  in  observing  the  manners  and  dis- 
positions of  the  people,  as  well  as  learning  their  language,  wherein 
I had  a great  facility,  by  the  strength  of  my  memory. 

The  last  of  these  voyages  not  proving  very  fortunate,  I grew 
weary  of  the  sea,  and  intended  to  stay  at  home  with  my  wife  and 
family.  I removed  from  the  Old  Jewry  to  Fetter  Lane,  and  from 
thence  to  Wapping,  hoping  to  get  business  among  the  sailors ; but 
it  would  not  turn  to  account.  After  three  years’  expectation  that 
things  would  mend,  I accepted  an  advantageous  offer  from  Captain 
William  Prichard,  master  of  the  Antelope,  who  was  making  a voy- 
age to  the  South  Sea.  We  set  sail  from  Bristol,  May  4,  1699,  and 
our  voyage  at  first  was  very  prosperous. 

It  would  not  be  proper,  for  some  reasons,  to  trouble  the  reader 
with  the  particulars  of  our  adventures  in  those  seas  ; let  it  suffice  to 
inform  him  that,  in  our  passage  from  thence  to  the  East  Indies,  we 
were  driven  by  a violent  storm  to  the  northwest  of  Yan  Diemen’s 
Land.  By  an  observation  we  found  ourselves  in  the  latitude  of 
30°  2'  south.  Twelve  of  our  crew  were  dead  by  immoderate  labor 
and  ill  food  ; the  rest  were  in  a very  weak  condition.  On  the  5th 
of  November,  which  was  the  beginning  of  summer  in  those  parts, 


150  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

the  weather  being  very  hazy,  the  seamen  spied  a rock  within  half  a 
cable’s-length  of  the  ship  ; but  the  wind  was  so  strong  that  we  were 
driven  directly  upon  it,  and  imme  iately  split.  Six  of  the  crew,  of 
whom  I was  one,  having  let  down  the  boat  into  the  sea,  made  a 
shift  to  get  clear  of  the  ship  and  the  rock.  We  rowed,  by  my  com- 
putation, about  three  leagues,  till  we  were  able  to  work  no  longer, 
being  already  spent  with  labor  while  we  were  in  the  ship.  We 
therefore  trusted  ourselves  to  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  and  in  about 
half  an  hour  the  boat  was  overset  by  a sudden  flurry  from  the  north. 
What  became  of  my  companions  in  the  boat,  as  well  as  of  those  who 
escaped  on  the  rock  or  were  left  in  the  vessel,  I cannot  tell,  but 
conclude  they  were  all  lost.  For  my  own  part,  I swam  as  Fortune 
directed  me,  and  was  pushed  forward  by  wind  and  tide.  I often  let 
my  legs  drop,  and  could  feel  no  bottom ; but  when  I was  almost 
gone,  and  able  to  struggle  no  longer,  I found  myself  within  my 
depth,  and  by  this  time  the  storm  was  much  abated.  The  declivity 
was  so  small  that  I walked  near  a mile  before  I got  to  the  shore, 
which  I conjectured  was  about  eight  o’clock  in  the  evening.  I then 
advanced  forward  near  half  a mile,  but  could  not  discover  any  sign 
of  houses  or  inhabitants,  at  least  I was  in  so  weak  a condition  that 
I did  not  observe  them.  I was  extremely  tired,  and  with  that  and 
the  heat  of  the  weather,  and  about  half  a pint  of  brandy  that  I 
drank  as  I left  the  ship,  I found  myself  much  inclined  to  sleep.  I 
lay  down  on  the  grass,  which  was  very  short  and  soft,  where  I 3lept 
sounder  than  I ever  remembered  to  have  done  in  my  life,  and,  as  I 
reckoned,  about  nine  hours,  for  when  I awaked  it  was  just  daylight. 
I attempted  to  rise,  but  was  not  able  to  stir  ; for,  as  I happened  to 
lie  on  my  back,  I found  my  arms  and  legs  were  strongly  fastened  011 
each  side  to  the  ground,  and  my  hair,  which  was  long  and  thick, 
tied  down  in  the  same  manner.  I likewise  felt  several  slender  liga- 
tures across  my  body,  from  my  arm-pits  to  my  thighs.  I could  only 
look  upwards  ; the  sun  began  to  grow  hot  and  the  light  offended  my 
eyes.  I heard  a confused  noise  about  me,  but,  in  the  posture  I lay, 
could  see  nothing  except  the  sky.  In  a little  time  I felt  something 
alive  moving  on  my  left  leg,  which,  advancing  gently  forward  over 
my  breast,  came  almost  to  my  chin,  when,  bending  my  eyes  down- 
ward as  much  as  I could,  I perceived  it  to  be  a human  creature  not 
six  inches  high,  with  a bow  and  arrow  in  his  hands  and  a quiver  at 
his  back.  In  the  meantime  I felt  at  least  forty  more  of  the  same 
kind  (as  I conjectured)  following  the  first.  I was  in  the  utmost 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D.  15 1 

astonishment,  and  roared  so  loud  that  they  all  ran  back  in  a fright, 
and  some  of  them,  as  I was  afterwards  told,  were  hurt  with  the  falls 
they  got  by  leaping  from  my  sides  upon  the  ground.  However, 
they  soon  returned,  and  one  of  them,  who  ventured  so  far  as  to  get 
a full  sight  of  my  face,  lifting  up  his  hands  and  eyes  by  way  of  ad- 
miration, cried  out,  in  a shrill  but  distinct  voice,  Hehinah  degul  ; 
the  others  repeated  the  same  words  several  times*  but  I then  knew 
not  what  they  meant.  I lay  all  this  while,  as  the  reader  may  be- 
lieve, in  great  uneasiness.  At  length,  struggling  to  get  loose,  I had 
the  fortune  to  break  the  strings  and  wrench  out  the  pegs  that 
fastened  my  left  arm  to  the  ground ; for,  by  lifting  it  up  to  my 
face,  I discovered  the  methods  they  had  taken  to  bind  me,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  with  a violent  pull  which  gave  me  excessive  pain,  I 
a little  loosened  the  string  that,  tied  down  my  hair  on  the  left  side, 
so  that  I was  just  able  to  turn  my  head  about  two  inches.  But  the 
creatures  ran  off  a second  time  before  I could  seize  them ; where- 
upon there  was  a great  shout,  in  a very  shrill  accent,  and,  after  it 
ceased,  I heard  one  of  them  cry  aloud,  Tolgo  phonac,  when,  in  an 
instant,  I felt  above  a hundred  arrows  discharged  on  my  left  hand, 
which  pricked  me  like  so  many  needles,  and,  besides,  they  shot  an- 
other flight  into  the  air,  as  we  do  bombs  in  Europe,  whereof  many, 
I suppose,  fell  on  my  body  (though  I felt  them  not),  and  some  on 
my  face,  which  I immediately  covered  with  my  left  hand.  When 
this  shower  of  arrows  was  over,  I fell  a-groaning  with  grief  and 
pain  ; and  then,  striving  again  to  get  loose,  they  discharged  another 
volley,  larger  than  the  first,  and  some  of  them  attempted  with 
spears  to  stick  me  in  the  sides ; but,  by  good  luck,  I had  on  me  a 
buff  jerkin,  which  they  could  not  pierce.  I thought  it  the  most 
prudent  method  to  lie  still ; and  my  design  was  to  continue  so  till 
night,  when,  my  left  hand  being  already  loose,  I could  easily  free 
myself ; and  as  for  the  inhabitants,  I had  reason  to  believe  I might 
be  a match  for  the  greatest  army  they  could  bring  against  me,  if 
they  were  all  the  same  size  with  him  that  I saw.  But  fortune  dis- 
posed otherwise  of  me.  When  the  people  observed  I was  quiet,  they 
discharged  no  more  arrows,  but  by  the  noise  I heard  I knew  their 
numbers  increased ; and  about  four  yards  from  me,  over  against  my 
right  ear,  I heard  a knocking  for  above  an  hour,  like  that  of  people 
at  work,  when,  turning  my  head  that  way  as  well  as  the  pegs  and 
strings  would  permit  me,  I saw  a stage  erected  about  a foot  and  a 
half  from  the  ground,  capable  of  holding  four  of  the  inhabitants. 


152 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irelajid. 


with  two  or  three  ladders  to  mount  it,  from  whence  one  of  them, 
who  seemed  to  be  a person  of  quality,  made  me  a long  speech, 
whereof  I understood  not  one  syllable.  But  I should  have  men- 
tioned that  before  the  principal  person  began  his  oration  he  cried 
out  three  times,  Langro  dehul  san  (these  words  and  the  former 
were  afterwards  repeated  and  explained  to  me)  ; whereupon,  imme- 
diately, about  fifty  of  the  inhabitants  came  and  cut  the  strings  that 
fastened  the  left  side  of  my  head,  which  gave  me  the  liberty  of 
turning  it  to  the  right,  and  of  observing  the  person  and  gesture  of 
him  that  was  to  speak.  He  appeared  to  be  of  a middle  age,  and 
taller  than  any  of  the  other  three  who  attended  him,  whereof  one 
was  a page  that  held  up  his  train,  and  seemed  to  be  somewhat 
longer  than  my  middle  finger  ; the  other  two  stood  the  one  on  each 
side  to  support  him.  He  acted  every  part  of  an  orator,  and  I could 
observe  many  periods  of  threatenings,  and  others  of  promises,  pity, 
and  kindness.  I answered  in  a few  words,  but  in  uhe  most  submis- 
sive manner,  lifting  up  my  left  hand  and  both  my  eyes  to  the  sun, 
as  calling  him  for  a witness  ; and  being  almost  famished  with  hun- 
ger, having  not  eaten  a morsel  for  some  hours  before  I left  the  ship, 
I found  the  demands  of  nature  so  strong  upon  me  that  I could  not 
forbear  showing  my  impatience  (perhaps  against  the  strict  rules  of 
decency)  by  putting  my  finger  frequently  to  my  mouth,  to  signify 
that  I wanted  food.  The  hurgo  (for  so  they  called  a great  lord,  as 
I afterwards  learned)  understood  me  very  well.  He  descended  from 
the  stage  and  commanded  that  several  ladders  should  be  applied  to 
my  sides,  on  which  above  a hundred  of  the  inhabitants  mounted 
and  walked  towards  my  mouth,  laden  with  baskets  full  of  meat, 
which  had  been  provided  and  sent  thither  by  the  king’s  orders, 
upon  the  first  intelligence  he  received  of  me.  I observed,  there  was 
the  flesh  of  several  animals,  but  could  not  distinguish  them  by  the 
taste.  There  were  shoulders,  legs,  and  loins,  shaped  like  those  of 
mutton  and  very  well  dressed,  but  smaller  than  the  wings  of  a lark. 
I eat  them  by  two  or  three  at  a mouthful,  and  took  three  loaves  at 
a time  about  the  bigness  of  musket-bullets.  They  supplied  me  as 
fast  as  they  could,  showing  a thousand  marks  of  wonder  and  aston- 
ishment at  my  bulk  and  appetite.  I then  made  another  sign,  that 
I wanted  drink.  They  found  by  my  eating  that  a small  quantity 
would  not  suffice  me,  and,  being  a most  ingenious  people,  they 
slung  up,  with  great  dexterity,  one  of  their  largest  hogsheads,  then 
rolled  it  towards  my  hand  and  beat  out  the  top ; I drank  it  off  at  a 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


153 


draught,  which  I might  well  do,  for  it  did  not  hold  half  a pint  and 
tasted  like  a small  wine  of  Burgundy,  but  much  more  delicious. 
They  brought  me  a second  hogshead,  which  I drank  m the  same 
manner  and  made  signs  for  more,  but  they  had  none  to  give  me. 
When  I had  performed  these  wonders  they  shouted  for  joy  and 
danced  upon  my  breast,  repeating  several  times,  as  they  did  at 
first,  Hekindh  degul.  They  made  me  a sign  that  I should  throw 
down  the  two  hogsheads,  but  first  warning  the  people  how  to  stand 
out  of  the  way,  crying  aloud,  Borach  mevolah  ; and  when  they  saw 
the  vessels  in  the  air  there  was  a universal  shout  of  Hekinah  degul. 
I confess  I was  often  tempted,  while  they  were  passing  backwards  and 
forwards  on  my  body,  to  seize  forty  or  fifty  of  the  first  that  came  in 
my  reach  and  dash  them  against  the  ground.  But  the  remembrance 
of  what  I had  felt,  which  probably  might  not  be  the  worst  they 
could  do,  and  the  promise  of  honor  I made  them — for  so  I inter- 
preted my  submissive  behavior — soon  drove  out  these  imaginations. 
Besides,  I now  considered  myself  as  bound  by  the  laws  of  hospitality 
to  a people  who  had  treated  me  with  so  much  expense  and  magnifi- 
cence. However,  in  my  thoughts  I could  not  sufficiently  wonder  at 
the  intrepidity  of  these  diminutive  mortals,  who  durst  venture  to 
mount  and  walk  upon  my  body,  while  one  of  my  hands  was  at 
liberty,  without  trembling  at  the  very  sight  of  so  prodigious  a 
creature  as  I must  appear  to  them.  After  some  time,  when  they 
observed  that  I made  no  more  demands  for  meat,  there  appeared 
before  me  a person  of  high  rank  from  his  imperial  majesty.  His 
excellency,  having  mounted  on  the  small  of  my  right  leg,  advanced 
forwards  up  to  my  faee,  with  about  a dozen  of  his  retinue,  and, 
producing  his  credentials,  under  the  signet-royal,  which  he  applied 
close  to  my  eyes,  spoke  about  ten  minutes  without  any  signs  of 
anger,  but  with  a kind  of  determined  resolution,  often  pointing 
forwards,  which,  as  I afterwards  found,  was  towards  the  capital 
city,  about  half  a mile  distant,  whither  it  was  agreed  by  his  majesty 
in  council  that  I must  be  conveyed.  I answered  in  a few  words, 
but  to  no  purpose,  and  made  a sign  with  my  hand  that  was  loose, 
putting  it  to  the  other  (but  over  his  excellency’s  head,  for  fear  of 
hurting  him  or  his  train)  and  then  to  my  own  head  and  body,  to 
signify  that  I desired  my  liberty.  It  appeared  that  he  understood 
me  well  enough,  for  he  shook  his  head  by  way  of  disapprobation, 
and  held  his  hand  in  a posture  to  show  that  I must  be  carried  as  a 
prisoner.  However,  he  made  other  signs,  to  let  me  know  that  I 


1 54 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


should  hare  meat  and  drink  enough,  and  very  good  treatment. 
Whereupon  I once  more  thought  of  attempting  to  break  my  bonds ; 
but  again,  when  I felt  the  smart  of  the  arrows  upon  my  face  and 
hands,  which  were  all  in  blisters,  and  many  of  the  darts  still  stick- 
ing in  them,  and  observing  likewise  that  the  number  of  my  enemies 
increased,  I gave  tokens  to  let  them  know  that  they  might  do  with 
me  what  they  pleased.  Upon  this  the  hurgo  and  his  train  with- 
drew, with  much  civility  and  cheerful  countenances.  Soon  after- 
wards I heard  a general  shout  with  frequent  repetitions  of  the 
words,  Peplom  selan  ; and  I felt  great  numbers  of  people  on  my 
left  side,  relaxing  the  cords  to  such  a degree  that  I was  able  to. 
turn  upon  my  right  and  to  ease  myself  with  making  water, 
which  I very  plentifully  did,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  peo- 
ple, who,  conjecturing  by  my  motion  what  I was  going  to  do,  im- 
mediately opened  to  the  right  and  left  on  that  side  to  avoid  the 
torrent,  which  fell  with  noise  and  violence  from  me.  But  before 
this  they  had  daubed  my  face  and  both  my  hands  with  a sort  of 
ointment,  very  pleasant  to  the  smell,  which,  in  a few  minutes,  re- 
moved all  the  smart  of  their  arrows.  These  circumstances,  added 
to  the  refreshment  I had  received  by  their  victuals  and  drink, 
which  were  very  nourishing,  disposed  me  to  sleep.  I slept  about 
eight  hours,  as  I was  afterwards  assured  ; and  it  was  no  wonder,  for 
the  physicians,  by  the  emperor’s  order,  had  mingled  a sleepy  potion 
in  the  hogsheads  of  wine. 

It  seems  that,  upon  the  first  moment  I was  discovered  sleeping 
on  the  ground  after  my  landing,  the  emperor  had  early  notice  of 
it  by  an  express,  and  determined,  in  council,  that  I should  be  tied 
in  the  manner  I have  related  (which  was  done  in  the  night,  while 
I slept),  that  plenty  of  meat  and  drink  should  be  sent  to  me,  and 
a machine  prepared  to  carry  me  to  the  capital  city. 

This  resolution,  perhaps,  may  appear  very  bold  and  dangerous, 
and,  I am  confident,  would  not  be  imitated  by  any  prince  in 
Europe  on  the  like  occasion.  However,  in  my  opinion,  it  was  ex- 
tremely prudent,  as  well  as  generous ; for,  supposing  these  people 
had  endeavored  to  kill  me  with  their  spears  and  arrows  while  I was 
asleep,  I should  certainly  have  awaked  with  the  first  sense  of  smart, 
which  might  so  far  have  roused  my  rage  and  strength  as  to  have 
enabled  me  to  break  the  strings  wherewith  I was  tied;  after  which, 
as  they  were  not  able  to  make  resistance,  so  they  could  expect  no 
mercy. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


*55 


These  people  are  most  excellent  mathematicians,  and  arrived  to 
a great  perfection  in  mechanics,  by  the  countenance  and  encour- 
agement of  the  emperor,  who  is  a renowned  patron  of  learning. 
This  prince  has  several  machines  fixed  on  wheels  for  the  carriage 
of  trees  and  other  great  weights.  He  often  builds  his  largest  men- 
of-war,  whereof  some  are  nine  feet  long,  in  the  woods  where  the  tim- 
ber grows,  and  has  them  carried  on  these  engines  three  or  four  hun- 
dred yards  to  the  sea.  Five  hundred  carpenters  and  engineers  were 
immediately  set  at  work  to  prepare  the  greatest  engine  they  had. 
It  was  a frame  of  wood  raised  three  inches  from  the  ground,  about 
seven  feet  long  and  four  wide,  moving  upon  twenty-two  wheels.  The 
shout  I heard  was  upon  the  arrival  of  this  engine,  which,  it  seems, 
set  out  in  four  hours  after  my  landing.  It  was  brought  parallel 
to  me  as  I lay.  But  the  principal  difficulty  was  to  raise  and  place 
me  in  this  vehicle.  Eighty  poles,  each  of  one  foot  high,  were 
erected  for  this  purpose,  and  very  strong  cords,  of  the  bigness  of 
pack-thread,  were  fastened  by  hooks  to  many  bandages  which  the 
workmen  had  girt  round  my  neck,  my  hands,  my  body,  and  my 
legs.  Nine  hundred  of  the  strongest  men  were  employed  to  draw 
up  these  cords,  by  many  pulleys  fastened  on  the  poles  ; and  thus,  in 
less  than  three  hours,  I was  raised  and  slung  into  the  engine,  and 
there  tied  fast.  All  this  I was  told ; for,  while  the  whole  operation 
was  performing,  I lay  in  a profound  sleep,  by  the  force  of  that 
soporiferous  medicine  infused  into  my  liquor.  Fifteen  hundred  of 
the  emperor’s  largest  horses,  each  about  four  inches  and  a half 
high,  were  employed  to  draw  me  towards  the  metropolis,  which,  as 
I said,  was  half  a mile  distant. 

About  four  hours  after  we  began  our  journey,  I awaked  by  a 
very  ridiculous  accident ; for  the  carriage  being  stopped  a while,  to 
adjust  something  that  was  out  of  order,  two  or  three  of  the  young 
natives  had  the  curiosity  to  see  how  I looked  when  I was  asleep ; 
they  climbed  up  into  the  engine,  and,  advancing  very  softly  to  my 
face,  one  of  them,  an  officer  in  the  guards,  put  the  sharp  end  of 
his  half-pike  a good  way  up  into  my  left  nostril,  which  tickled  my 
nose  like  a straw,  and  made  me  sneeze  violently ; whereupon  they 
stole  off  unperceived,  and  it  was  three  weeks  before  I knew  the 
cause  of  my  waking  so  suddenly.  We  made  a long  march  the  re- 
maining part  of  the  day,  and  rested  at  night  with  five  hundred 
guards  on  each  side  of  me,  half  with  torches,  and  half  with  bows 
and  arrows,  ready  to  shoot  me  if  I should  offer  to  stir.  The  next 


156  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

morning  at  sunrise  we  continued  our  march,  and  arrived  within 
two  hundred  yards  of  the  city  gates  about  noon.  The  emperor 
and  all  his  court  came  out  to  meet  us  ; but  his  great  officers  would  by 
no  means  suffer  his  majesty  to  endanger  his  person  by  mounting  on 
my  body. 

At  the  place  where  the  carriage  stopped  there  stood  an  ancient 
temple,  esteemed  to  be  the  largest  in  the  whole  kingdom  ; which, 
having  been  polluted  some  years  before  by  an  unnatural  murder, 
was,  according  to  the  zeal  of  those  people,  looked  upon  as  profane, 
and  therefore  had  been  applied  to  common  use,  and  all  the  orna- 
ments and  furniture  carried  away.  In  this  edifice  it  was  determined 
I should  lodge.  The  great  gate  fronting  to  the  north  was  about  four 
feet  high,  and  almost  two  feet  wide,  through  which  I could  easily 
creep.  On  each  side  of  the  gate  was  a small  window,  not  above  six 
inches  from  the  ground : into  that  on  the  left  side  the  king’s  smith 
conveyed  four  score  and  eleven  chains,  like  those  that  hang  to  a 
lady’s  watch  in  Europe,  and  almost  as  large,  which  were  locked  to 
my  left  leg  with  six-and-thirty  padlocks.  Over  against  this  temple, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  great  highway,  at  twenty  feet  distance, 
there  was  a turret  at  least  five  feet  high.  Here  the  emperor  as- 
cended, with  many  principal  lords  of  his  court,  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  viewing  me,  as  I was  told,  for  I could  not  see  them.  It 
was  reckoned  that  above  a hundred  thousand  inhabitants  came  out 
of  the  town  upon  the  same  errand ; and,  in  spite  of  my  guards,  I 
believe  there  could  not  be  fewer  than  ten  thousand  at  several 
times,  who  mounted  my  body  by  the  help  of  ladders.  But  a pro- 
clamation was  soon  issued  to  forbid  it  upon  pain  of  death.  When 
the  workmen  found  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  break  loose,  they 
cut  all  the  strings  that  bound  me ; whereupon  I rose  up  with  as 
melancholy  a disposition  as  ever  I had  in  my  life.  But  the  noise 
and  astonishment  of  the  people  at  seeing  me  rise  and  walk  are  not 
to  be  expressed.  The  chains  that  held  my  left  leg  were  about  two 
yards  long,  and  gave  me  not  only  the  liberty  of  walking  backwards 
and  forwards  in  a semicircle,  but,  being  fixed  within  four  inches  of 
the  gate,  allowed  me  to  creep  in,  and  lie  at  my  full  length  in  the 
temple.40 


40  After  a number  of  wonderful  adventures  related  in  eight  chapters,  of  which  the 
foregoing  is  the  first,  Gulliver  escaped  from  Lilliput  and  returned  home. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


157 


A VOYAGE  TO  BROBDINGNAG. 

A great  storm  described,  the  long-boat  sent  to  fetch  water — Gulliver  goes  with 
it  to  discover  the  country — He  is  left  on  shore,  is  seized  by  one  of  the  natives, 
and  carried  to  a farmer’s  house— His  reception,  with  several  accidents  that 
happened  there — A description  of  the  inhabitants. 

Having  been  condemned  by  nature  and  fortune  to  an  active  and 
restless  life,  in  two  months  after  my  return  I again  left  my  native 
country  and  took  shipping  in  the  Downs  on  the  20th  day  of  June, 
1702,  in  the  Adventure , Captain  John  Nicholas,  a Cornishman, 
commander,  bound  for  Surat.  We  had  a very  prosperous  gale  till 
we  arrived  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  where  we  landed  for  fresh 
water ; but,  discovering  a leak,  we  unshipped  our  goods  and  win- 
tered there  ; for  the  captain,  falling  sick  of  an  ague,  we  could  not 
leave  the  Cape  till  the  end  of  March.  We  then  set  sail,  and  had 
a good  voyage  till  we  passed  the  Straits  of  Madagascar ; but  hav- 
ing got  northward  of  that  island  and  to  about  five  degrees  south 
latitude,  the  winds,  which  in  those  seas  are  observed  to  blow  a con- 
stant equal  gale  between  the  north  and  west,  from  the  beginning 
of  December  to  the  beginning  of  May,  on  the  19th  of  April  began 
to  blow  with  much  greater  violence,  and  more  westerly  than  usual, 
continuing  so  for  twenty  days  together,  during  which  time  we 
were  driven  a little  to  the  east  of  the  Molucca  Islands  and  about 
three  degrees  northward  of  the  line,  as  our  captain  found  by  an 
observation  he  took  the  2nd  of  May,  at  which  time  the  wind 
ceased,  and  it  was  a perfect  calm,  whereat  I was  not  a little  re- 
joiced. But  he,  being  a man  well  experienced  in  the  navigation 
of  those  seas,  bid  us  all  prepare  against  a storm,  which  accordingly 
happened  the  day  following ; for  the  southern  wind,  called  the 
southern  monsoon,  began  to  set  in. 

Finding  it  was  likely  to  overblow  [what  follows  is  a happy 
parody  of  the  sea-terms  in  old  voyages],  we  took  in  our  spritsail 
and  stood  to  hand  the  foresail ; but,  making  foul  weather,  we 
looked  the  guns  were  all  fast,  and  handed  the  mizzen.  The  ship 
lay  very  broad  off,  so  we  thought  it  better  spooning  before  the  sea 
than  trying  or  hulling.  We  reefed  the  foresail,  and  set  him,  and 
hauled  aft  the  foresheet ; the  helm  was  hard-a- weather.  The  ship 
wore  bravely.  We  belayed  the  fore-downhaul ; but  the  sail  was 
split,  and  we  hauled  down  the  yard  and  got  the  sail  into  the  ship, 
and  unbound  all  the  things  clear  of  it.  It  was  a very  fierce  storm ; 


158  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

the  sea  broke  strange  and  dangerous.  We  hauled  off  upon  the 
lanyard  of  the  whipstaff  and  helped  the  man  at  the  helm.  We 
could  not  get  down  our  topmast,  but  let  all  stand,  because  she 
scudded  before  the  sea  very  well,  and  we  knew  that  the  topmast 
being  aloft  the  ship  was  the  wholesomer,  and  made  better  way 
through  the  sea,  seeing  we  had  sea-room.  When  the  storm  was 
over  we  set  foresail  and  mainsail,  and  brought  the  ship  to.  Then 
we  set  the  mizzen,  maintopsail,  and  the  foretopsail.  Our  course 
was  east-north- east,  the  wind  was  at  southwest.  We  got  the  star- 
board tacks  aboard,  we  cast  off  our  weather-braces  and  lifts,  we 
set-in  the  lee-braces  and  hauled  forward  by  the  weather-bowlings, 
and  hauled  them  tight,  and  belayed  them,  and  hauled  over  the 
mizzen  tack  to  windward,  and  kept  her  full  and  by  as  near  as  she 
would  lie. 

During  this  storm,  which  was  followed  by  a strong  wind  west- 
south-west,  we  were  carried,  by  my  computation,  about  five  hun- 
dred leagues  to  the  east,  so  that  the  eldest  sailor  on  board  could 
not  tell  in  what  part  of  the  world  we  were.  Our  provisions  held 
out  well,  our  ship  was  stanch,  and  our  crew  all  in  good  health ; 
but  we  lay  in  the  utmost  distress  for  water.  We  thought  it  best 
to  hold  on  the  same  course  rather  than  turn  more  northerly,  which 
might  have  brought  us  to  the  northwest  part  of  Great  Tartary  and 
into  the  Frozen  Sea. 

On  the  16th  day  of  June,  1703,  a boy  on  the  topmast  discovered 
land.  On  the  17th  we  came  in  full  view  of  a great  island  or  conti- 
nent (for  we  knew  not  whether),  on  the  south  side  whereof  was  a 
small  neck  of  land  jutting  out  into  the  sea,  and  a creek  too  shallow 
to  hold  a ship  of  above  one  hundred  tons.  We  cast  anchor  within 
a league  of  this  creek,  and  our  captain  sent  a dozen  of  his  men  well 
armed  in  the  long-boat,  with  vessels  for  water,  if  any  could  be 
found.  I desired  his  leave  to  go  with  them  that  I might  see  the 
country  and  make  what  discoveries  I could.  When  we  came  to 
land  we  saw  no  river  or  spring  nor  any  sign  of  inhabitants.  Our 
men,  therefore,  wandered  on  the  shore  to  find  out  some  fresh  water 
near  the  sea,  and  I walked  alone  about  a mile  on  the  other  side, 
where  I observed  the  country  all  barren  and  rocky.  I now  began 
to  be  weary,  and,  seeing  nothing  to  entertain  my  curiosity,  I re- 
turned gently  down  towards  the  creek,  and,  the  sea  being  full  in  my 
view,  I saw  our  men  already  got  into  the  boat  and  rowing  for  life 
to  the  ship.  I was  going  to  holloa  after  them,  although  it  had 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


159  * 


been  to  little  purpose,  when  I observed  a huge  creature  walking 
after  them  in  the  sea  as  fast  as  he  could ; he  waded  not  much 
deeper  than  his  knees,  and  took  prodigious  strides  ; but  our  men 
had  the  start  of  him  half  a league,  and  the  sea  thereabouts  being 
full  of  sharp-pointed  rocks,  the  monster  was  not  able  to  overtake 
the  boat.  This  I was  afterwards  told,  for  I durst  not  stay  to  see 
the  issue  of  the  adventure,  but  ran  as  fast  as  I could  the  way  I first 
went,  and  then  climbed  up  a steep  hill  which  gave  me  some  pros- 
pect of  the  country.  I found  it  fully  cultivated  ; but  that  which 
first  surprised  me  was  the  length  of  the  grass,  which,  in  those 
grounds  that  seemed  to  be  kept  for  hay,  was  about  twenty  feet 
high. 

I fell  into  a high  road,  for  so  I took  it  to  be,  though  it  served  to 
the  inhabitants  only  as  a footpath  through  a field  of  barley.  Here 
I walked  on  for  some  time,  but  could  see  little  on  either  side,  it 
being  now  near  harvest,  and  the  corn  rising  at  least  forty  feet.  I 
was  an  hour  walking  to  the  end  of  this  field,  which  was  fenced  in 
with  a hedge  of  at  least  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet  high,  and  the 
trees  so  lofty  that  I could  make  no  computation  of  their  altitude. 
There  was  a stile  to  pass  from  this  field  into  the  next.  It  had  four 
steps  and  a stone  to  cross  over  when  you  came  to  the  uppermost. 
It  was  impossible  for  me  to  climb  this  stile,  because  every  step  was 
six  feet  high,  and  the  upper  stone  about  twenty.  I was  endeavor- 
ing to  find  some  gap  in  the  hedge  when  I discovered  one  of  the 
inhabitants  in  the  next  field,  advancing  towards  the  stile,  of  the 
same  size  with  him  whom  I saw  in  the  sea  pursuing  our  boat.  He 
appeared  as  tall  as  an  ordinary  spire-steeple,  and  took  about  ten 
yards  at  every  stride,  as  near  as  I could  guess.  I was  struck  with 
the  utmost  fear  and  astonishment,  and  ran  to  hide  myself  in  the 
corn,  whence  I saw  him  at  the  top  of  the  stile,  looking  back  into 
the  next  field  on  the  right  hand,  and  heard  him  call  in  a voice 
many  degrees  louder  than  a speaking-trumpet ; but  the  noise  was 
so  high  in  the  air  that  at  first  I certainly  thought  it  was  thunder. 
Whereupon  seven  monsters,  like  himself,  came  towards  him  with 
reaping-hooks  in  their  hands,  each  hook  about  the  largeness  of  six 
scythes.  These  people  were  not  so  well  clad  as  the  first,  whose 
servants  or  laborers  they  seemed  to  be  ; for  upon  some  words  he 
spoke  they  went  to  reap  the  corn  in  the  field  where  I lay.  I kept 
from  them  at  as  great  a distance  as  I could,  but  was  forced  to  move 
with  extreme  difficulty,  for  the  stalks  of  the  corn  were  sometimes 


160  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

not  above  a foot  distant,  so  tliat  I could  liardly  squeeze  my  body 
betwixt  them.  However,  I made  a shift  to  go  forward  till  I came 
to  a part  of  the  field  where  the  corn  had  been  laid  by  the  rain  and 
wind.  Here  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  advance  a step,  for  the 
stalks  were  so  interwoven  that  I could  not  creep  through,  and  the 
beards  of  the  fallen  ears  so  strong  and  pointed  that  they  pierced 
through  my  clothes  into  my  flesh.  At  the  same  time  I heard  the 
reapers  not  above  a hundred  yards  behind  me.  Being  quite  dis- 
pirited with  toil,  and  wholly  overcome  by  grief  and  despair,  I lay 
down  between  two  ridges  and  heartily  wished  I might  there  end  my 
days.  I bemoaned  my  desolate  widow  and  fatherless  children.  I 
lamented  my  own  folly  and  wilfulness  in  attempting  a second  voyage, 
against  the  advice  of  all  my  friends  and  relations.  In  this  terrible 
agitation  of  mind  I could  not  forbear  thinking  of  Lilliput,  whose 
inhabitants  looked  upon  me  as  the  greatest  prodigy  that  ever  ap- 
peared in  the  world ; where  I was  able  to  draw  an  imperial  fleet  in 
my  hand  and  perform  those  other  actions  which  will  be  recorded 
for  ever  in  the  chronicles  of  that  empire,  while  posterity  shall  hardly 
believe  them,  although  attested  by  millions.  I reflected  what  a 
mortification  it  must  prove  to  me  to  appear  as  inconsiderable 
in  this  nation  as  one  single  Lilliputian  would  be  among  us.  But 
this  I conceived  was  to  be  the  least  of  my  misfortunes  : for,  as 
human  creatures  are  observed  to  be  more  savage  and  cruel  in  pro- 
portion to  their  bulk,  what  could  I expect  but  to  be  a morsel  in  the 
mouth  of  the  first  among  these  enormous  barbarians  that  should 
happen  to  seize  me  ? Undoubtedly  philosophers  are  in  the  right 
when  they  tell  us  that  nothing  is  great  or  little  otherwise  than  by 
comparison.  It  might  have  pleased  fortune  to  have  let  the  Lillipu- 
tians find  some  nation  where  the  people  were  as  diminutive  with 
respect  to  them  as  they  were  to  me.  And  who  knows  but  that  even 
this  prodigious  race  of  mortals  might  be  equally  overmatched  in 
some  distant  part  of  the  world,  whereof  we  have  yet  no  discovery  ? 

Scared  and  confounded  as  I was,  I could  not  forbear  going  on  with 
these  reflections,  when  one  of  the  reapers,  approaching  within  ten 
yards  of  the  ridge  where  I lay,  made  me  apprehend  that  with  the 
next  step  I should  be  squashed  to  death  under  his  foot,  or  cut  in  two 
with  his  reaping-hook.  And  therefore,  when  he  was  again  about  to 
move,  I screamed  as  loud  as  fear  could  make  me  ; whereupon  the 
huge  creature  trod  short,  and  looking  round  about  under  him  for 
some  time,  at  last  espied  me  as  I lay  on  the  ground.  He  considered 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


161 


a while,  with  the  caution  of  one  who  endeavors  to  lay  hold  on  a 
small,  dangerous  animal  in  such  a manner  that  it  shall  not  be  able 
either  to  scratch  or  to  bite  him,  as  I myself  have  sometimes  done 
with  a weasel  in  England.  At  length  he  ventured  to  take  me  be- 
hind, by  the  middle,  between  his  fore-finger  and  thumb,  and  brought 
me  within  three  yards  of  his  eyes,  that  he  might  behold  my  shape 
more  perfectly.  I guessed  his  meaning,  and  my  good  fortune  gave 
me  so  much  presence  of  mind,  that  I resolved  not  to  struggle  in  the 
least  as  he  held  me  in  the  air,  above  sixty  feet  from  the  ground,  al- 
though he  grievously  pinched  my  sides,  for  fear  I should  slip  through 
his  fingers.  All  I ventured  was  to  raise  mine  eyes  toward  the  sun, 
and  place  my  hands  together  in  a supplicating  posture,  and  to  speak 
some  words  in  an  humble,  melancholy  tone,  suitable  to  the  condition 
I then  was  in,  for  I apprehended  every  moment  that  he  would  dash 
me  against  the  ground,  as  we  usually  do  any  little,  hateful  animal, 
which  we  have  a mind  to  destroy.  But  my  good  star  would  have  it 
that  he  appeared  pleased  with  my  voice  and  gestures,  and  began  to 
look  upon  me  as  a curiosity,  much  wondering  to  hear  me  pronounce 
articulate  words,  although  he  could  not  understand  them.  In  the 
mean  time,  I was  not  able  to  forbear  groaning,  and  shedding  tears, 
and  turning  my  head  towards  my  sides,  letting  him  know,  as  well 
as  I could,  how  cruelly  I was  hurt  by  the  pressure  of  his  thumb  and 
finger.  He  seemed  to  apprehend  my  meaning ; for  lifting  up  the. 
lappet  of  his  coat,  he  put  me  gently  into  it,  and  immediately  ran 
along  with  me  to  his  master,  who  was  a substantial  farmer,  and  the. 
same  person  I had  first  seen  in  the  field. 

The  farmer  having  (as  I supposed  by  their  talk)  received  such  an 
account  of  me  as  his  servant  could  give  him,  took  a piece  of  a small 
straw,  about  the  size  of  a walking  staff,  and  therewith  lifted  up  the 
lappets  of  my  coat ; which,  it  seems,  he  thought  to  be  some  kind  of 
covering  that  nature  had  given  me.  He  blew  my  hairs  aside  to 
take  a better  view  of  my  face.  He  called  his  hinds  about  him,  and 
asked  them,  as  I afterwards  learned,  te  Whether  they  had  ever  seen 
in  the  fields  any  little  creature  that  resembled  me  ? ” He  then 
placed  me  softly  on  the  ground  upon  all  four,  but  I got  immediately 
up,  and  walked  slowly  backward  and  forward,  to  let  those  people  see 
I had  no  intent  to  run  away.  They  all  sat  down  in  a circle  about 
me,  the  better  to  observe  my  motions.  I pulled  off  my  hat,  and 
made  a low  bow  towards  the  farmer.  I fell  on  my  knees,  and  lifted 
up  my  hands  and  eyes,  and  spoke  several  words  as  loud  as  I could  ; 


162 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


I took  a purse  of  gold  out  of  my  pocket,  and  humbly  presented  it  to 
him.  He  received  it  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  then  applied  it  close 
to  his  eye  to  see  what  it  was,  and  afterwards  turned  it  several  times 
with  the  point  of  a pin  (which  he  took  out  of  his  sleeve),  but  could 
make  nothing  of  it.  Whereupon  I made  a sign  that  he  should 
place  his  hand  on  the  ground.  I then  took  the  purse,  and  opening 
it  poured  all  the  gold  into  his  palm.  There  were  six  Spanish  pieces 
of  four  pistoles  each,  besides  twenty  or  thirty  smaller  coins.  I saw 
him  wet  the  tip  of  his  little  finger  upon  his  tongue,  and  take  up  one 
of  my  largest  pieces,  and  then  another ; but  he  seemed  to  be  wholly 
ignorant  what  they  were.  He  made  me  a sign  to  put  them  again 
into  my  purse,  and  the  purse  again  into  my  pocket,  which,  after 
offering  it  to  him  several  times,  I thought  it  best  to  do. 

The  farmer,  by  this  time,  was  convinced  I must  be  a rational 
creature.  He  spoke  often  to  me  ; but  the  sound  of  his  voice  pierced 
my  ears  like  that  of  a water-mill,  yet  his  words  were  articulate 
enough.  I answered  as  loud  as  I could  in  several  languages,  and 
he  often  laid  his  ear  within  two  yards  of  me,  but  all  in  vain,  for 
we  were  wholly  unintelligible  to  each  other.  He  then  sent  his  ser- 
vants to  their  work,  and  taking  his  handkerchief  out  of  liis  pocket, 
de  doubled  and  spread  it  on  his  left  hand,  which  he  placed  flat  on 
the  ground,  with  the  palm  upward,  making  me  a sign  to  step  into 
it,  as  I could  easily  do,  for  it  was  not  above  a foot  in  thickness.  I 
thought  it  my  part  to  obey ; and,  for  fear  of  falling,  laid  myself  at 
full  length  upon  the  handkerchief,  with  the  remainder  of  which  he 
lapped  me  up  to  the  head  for  further  security,  and  in  this  manner 
carried  me  home  to  his  house.  There  he  called  his  wife,  and 
showed  me  to  her ; but  she  screamed  and  ran  back,  as  women  in 
England  do  at  the  sight  of  a toad  or  a spider.  However,  when  she 
had  awhile  seen  my  behavior,  and  how  well  I observed  the  signs  her 
husband  made,  she  was  soon  reconciled,  and  by  degrees  grew  ex- 
tremely tender  of  me. 

It  was  about  twelve  at  noon,  and  a servant  brought  in  dinner. 
It  was  only  one  substantial  dish  of  meat  (fit  for  the  plain  condition 
of  a husbandman),  in  a dish  of  about  four-and- twenty  feet  diameter. 
The  company  were,  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  three  children,  and  an 
old  grandmother.  When  they  were  sat  down,  the  farmer  placed  me 
at  some  distance  from  him  on  the  table,  which  was  thirty  feet  high 
from  the  floor.  I was  in  a terrible  fright,  and  kept  as  far  as  I could 
from  the  edge,  for  fear  of  falling.  The  wife  minced  a bit  of  meat. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


163 

then  crumbled  some  bread  on  a trencher,  and  placed  it  before  me. 
I made  her  a low  bow,  took  out  my  knife  and  fork,  and  fell  to  eat, 
which  gave  them  exceeding  delight.  The  mistress  sent  her  maid 
for  a small  dram-cup  which  held  about  two  gallons,  and  filled  it  with 
drink  ; I took  up  the  vessel  with  much  difficulty  in  both  hands,  and 
in  a most  respectful  manner  drank  to  her  ladyship’s  health,  ex- 
pressing the  words  as  loud  as  I could  in  English,  which  made  the 
company  laugh  so  heartily  that  I was  almost  deafened  with  the 
noise.  This  liquor  tasted  like  a small  cider,  and  was  not  unpleasant. 
Then  the  master  made  me  a sign  to  come  to  his  trencher  side ; but  as 
I walked  on  the  table,  being  in  great  surprise  all  the  time,  as  the 
indulgent  reader  will  easily  conceive  and  excuse,  I happened  to 
stumble  against  a crust,  and  fell  flat  on  my  face,  but  received  no 
hurt.  I got  up  immediately,  and  observing  the  good  people  to  be 
in  much  concern,  I took  my  hat  (which  I held  under  my  arm  out 
of  good  manners),  and  waving  it  over  my  head,  made  three  huzzas, 
to  show  I had  got  no  mischief  by  my  fall.  But  advancing  forward 
towards  my  master  (as  I shall  henceforth  call  him)  his  youngest 
son,  who  sat  next  to  him,  an  arch  boy  of  about  ten  years  old,  took 
me  by  the  legs,  and  held  me  so  high  in  the  air,  that  I trembled 
every  limb ; but  his  father  snatched  me  from  him,  and  at  the  same 
time  gave  him  such  a box  on  the  left  ear  as  would  have  felled  an 
European  troop  of  horse  to  the  earth,  ordering  him  to  be  taken  from 
the  table.  But  being  afraid  the  boy  might  owe  me  a spite,  and 
well  remembering  how  mischievous  all  children  among  us  naturally 
are  to  sparrows,  rabbits,  young  kittens,  and  puppy-dogs,  I fell  on 
my  knees,  and,  pointing  to  the  boy,  made  my  master  to  understand, 
as  well  as  I could,  that  I desired  his  son  might  be  pardoned.  The 
father  complied  and  the  lad  took  his  seat  again,  whereupon  I went 
to  him  and  kissed  his  hand,  which  my  master  took,  and  made  him 
stroke  me  gently  with  it. 

In  the  midst  of  dinner  my  mistress’s  favorite  cat  leaped  into  her 
lap.  I heard  a noise  behind  me  like  that  of  a dozen  stocking- 
weavers  at  work,  and,  turning  my  head,  I found  it  proceeded  from 
the  purring  of  that  animal,  who  seemed  to  be  three  times  larger 
than  an  ox,  as  I computed  by  the  view  of  her  head  and  one  of  her 
paws  while  her  mistress  was  feeding  and  stroking  her.  The  fierce- 
ness of  this  creature’s  countenance  altogether  discomposed  me, 
though  I stood  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table,  about  fifty  feet  off, 
and  although  my  mistress  held  her  fast  for  fear  she  might  give  a 


164 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


spring  and  seize  me  in  her  talons.  But  it  happened  there  was  no 
danger,  for  the  cat  took  not  the  least  notice  of  me  when  my  master 
placed  we  within  three  yards  of  her.  And,  as  I have  been  always 
told,  and  found  true  by  experience  in  my  travels,  that  flying  or  dis- 
covering fear  before  a fierce  animal  is  a certain  way  to  make  it 
pursue  or  attack  you,  so  I resolved  in  this  dangerous  juncture  to 
show  no  manner  of  concern.  I walked  with  intrepidity  five  or  six 
times  before  the  very  head  of  the  cat,  and  came  within  half  a yard 
of  her,  whereupon  she  drew  herself  back,  as  if  she  were  more  afraid 
of  me.  I had  less  apprehension  concerning  the  dogs,  whereof  three 
or  four  came  into  the  room,  as  it  is  usual  in  farmers’  houses,  one 
of  which  was  a mastiff,  equal  in  bulk  to  four  elephants,  and  a grey- 
hound, somewhat  taller  than  the  mastiff  but  not  so  large. 

When  dinner  was  almost  done  the  nurse  came  in  with  a child 
of  a year  old  in  her  arms,  who  immediately  espied  me  and  began  a 
squall  that  you  might  have  heard  from  London  Bridge  to  Chelsea, 
after  the  usual  oratory  of  infants,  to  get  me  for  a plaything.  The 
mother,  out  of  pure  indulgence,  took  me  up  and  put  me  towards 
the  child,  who  presently  sei'zed  me  by  the  middle  and  got  my  head 
into  his  mouth,  where  I roared  so  loud  that  the  urchin  was  frighted 
and  let  me  drop,  and  I should  infallibly  have  broke  my  neck  if  the 
mother  had  not  held  her  apron  under  me.  The  nurse,  to  quiet  her 
babe,  made  use  of  a rattle,  which  was  a kind  of  hollow  vessel  filled 
with  great  stones,  and  fastened  by  a cable  to  the  child’s  waist ; but 
all  in  vain,  so  that  she  was  forced  to  apply  the  last  remedy  by  giving 
it  suck.  I must  confess  no  object  ever  disgusted  me  so  much  as 
the  sight  of  her  monstrous  breast,  which  I cannot  tell  what  to  com- 
pare with  so  as  to  give  the  curious  reader  an  idea  of  its  bulk,  shape, 
and  color.  It  stood  prominent  six  feet,  and  could  not  be  less  than 
sixteen  in  circumference.  The  nipple  was  about  half  the  bigness 
of  my  head,  and  the  hue,  both  of  that  and  the  dug,  so  varied  with 
spots,  pimples,  and  freckles,  that  nothing  could  appear  more 
nauseous  : for  I had  a near  sight  of  her,  she  sitting  down,  the  more 
conveniently  to  give  suck,  and  I standing  on  the  table.  This  made 
me  reflect  upon  the  fair  skins  of  our  English  ladies,  who  appear  so 
beautiful  to  us  only  because  they  are  of  our  own  size,  and  their 
defects  not  to  be  seen  but  through  a magnifying  glass,  where  we 
find  by  experiment  that  the  smoothest  and  whitest  skins  look  rough, 
and  coarse,  and  ill-colored. 

I remember,  when  I was  at  Lilliput,  the  complexions  of  those 


Jonathan  Swift,  D.D.  165 

diminutive  people  appeared  to  me  the  fairest  in  the  world ; and 
talking  upon  this  subject  with  a person  of  learning  there,  who  was 
an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  he  said  that  my  face  appeared  much 
fairer  and  smoother  when  he  looked  on  me  from  the  ground  than  it 
did  upon  a nearer  view  when  I took  him  up  in  my  hand  and 
brought  him  close,  which  he  confessed  was  at  first  a very  shocking 
sight.  He  said  “he  could  discover  great  holes  in  my  skin;  that 
the  stumps  of  my  beard  were  ten  times  stronger  than  the  bristles 
of  a boar,  and  my  complexion  made  up  of  several  colors  altogether 
disagreeable  ” ; although  I must  beg  leave  to  say  for  myself  that  I 
am  as  fair  as  most  of  my  sex  and  country,  and  very  little  sunburnt 
by  all  my  travels.  On  the  other  side,  discoursing  of  the  ladies  in 
that  emperor’s  court,  he  used  to  tell  me  “one  had  freckles,  another 
too  wide  a mouth,  a third  too  large  a nose  ” ; nothing  of  which  I 
was  able  to  distinguish.  I confess  this  reflection  was  obvious 
enough,  which,  however,  I could  not  forbear,  lest  the  reader  might 
think  those  vast  creatures  were  actually  deformed  : for  I must  do 
them  the  justice  to  say  they  are  a comely  race  of  people  ; and  par- 
ticularly the  features  of  my  master’s  countenance,  although  he  were 
but  a farmer,  when  I beheld  him  from  the  height  of  sixty  feet,  ap- 
peared very  well  proportioned. 

When  dinner  was  done  my  master  went  out  to  his  laborers,  and, 
as  I could  discover  by  his  voice  and  gestures,  gave  his  wife  a strict 
charge  to  take  care  of  me.  I was  very  much  tired  and  disposed  to 
sleep,  which  my  mistress  perceiving,  she  put  me  on  her  own  bed, 
and  covered  me  with  a clean  white  handkerchief,  but  larger  and 
coarser  than  the  mainsad  of  a man-of-war, 

I slept  about  two  hours,  and  dreamt  I was  at  home  with  my  wife 
and  children,  which  aggravated  my  sorrows  when  I awaked  and 
found  myself  alone  in  a vast  room  between  two  and  three  hundred 
feet  wide  and  above  two  hundred  high,  lying  in  a bed  twenty  yards 
wide.  My  mistress  was  gone  about  her  household  affairs  and  had 
locked  me  in.  The  bed  was  eight  yards  from  the  floor.  Some 
natural  necessities  required  me  to  get  down ; I durst  not  presume 
to  call;  and  if  I had  it  would  have  been  in  vain,  with  such  a voice 
as  mine,  at  so  great  a distance  as  from  the  room  where  I lay  to  the 
kitchen  where  the  family  kept.  While  I was  under  these  circum- 
stances, two  rats  crept  up  the  bed-curtains,  and  ran  smelling  back- 
wards and  forwards  on  the  bed.  One  of  them  came  up  almost  to  my 
face,  whereupon  I rose  in  a fright,  and  drew  out  my  hanger  to  defend 


1 66 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


myself.  These  horrible  animals  had  the  boldness  to  attack  me  on  both 
sides,  and  one  of  them  held  his  forefeet  at  my  collar ; but  I had  the 
good  fortune  to  rip  up  his  belly  before  he  could  do  me  any  mischief, 
lie  fell  down  at  my  feet ; and  the  other,  seeing  the  fate  of  his  com 
rade,  made  his  escape,  but  not  without  one  good  wound  on  the  back, 
which  I gave  him  as  he  fled,  and  made  the  blood  run  trickling  from 
him.  After  this  exploit  I walked  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  bed  to 
recover  my  breath  and  loss  of  spirits.  These  creatures  were  of  the 
size  of  a large  mastiff,  but  infinitely  more  nimble  and  fierce  ; so  that 
if  I had  taken  off  my  belt  before  I went  to  sleep  I must  have  infal- 
libly been  torn  to  pieces  and  devoured.  I measured  the  tail  of  the 
dead  rat  and  found  it  to  be  two  yards  long,  wanting  an  inch;  but  it 
went  against  my  stomach  to  drag  the  carcass  off  the  bed,  where  it 
lay  still  bleeding ; I observed  it  had  yet  some  life,  but  with  a strong 
slash  across  the  neck  I thoroughly  despatched  it. 

Soon  after  my  mistress  came  into  the  room,  who,  seeing  me  all 
bloody,  ran  and  took  me  up  in  her  hand.  I pointed  to  the  dead  rat, 
smiling  and  making  other  signs  to  show  I was  not  hurt ; whereat 
she  was  extremely  rejoiced,  calling  the  maid  to  take  up  the  dead  rat 
with  a pair  of  tongs  and  throw  it  out  of  the  window.  Then  she  set 
me  on  a table,  where  I showed  her  my  hanger  all  bloody,  and,  wiping 
it  on  the  lappet  of  my  coat,  returned  it  to  the  scabbard.  I was 
pressed  to  do  more  than  one  thing  which  another  could  not  do  for 
me,  and  therefore  endeavored  to  make  my  mistress  understand  that 
I desired  to  be  set  down  on  the  floor ; which,  after  she  had  done,  my 
bashfulness  would  not  suffer  me  to  express  myself  further  than  by 
pointing  to  the  door  and  bowing  several  times.  The  good  woman 
with  much  difficulty  at  last  perceived  what  I would  be  at,  and  taking 
me  up  again  in  her  hand  walked  into  the  garden  where  she  set  me 
down.  I went  on  one  side  about  two  hundred  yards  and  beckoned 
to  her  not  to  look  or  to  follow  me,  I hid  myself  between  two  leaves 
of  sorrel  and  there  discharged  the  necessities  of  nature. 

I hope  the  gentle  reader  will  excuse  me  for  dwelling  on  these  and 
the  like  particulars,  which,  however  insignificant  they  may  appear  to 
grovelling  vulgar  minds,  yet  will  certainly  help  a philosopher  to  en- 
large his  thoughts  and  imagination,  and  apply  them  to  the  benefit  of 
public  as  well  as  private  life,  which  was  my  sole  design  in  presenting 
this  and  other  accounts  of  my  travels  to  the  world  : wherein  I have 
been  chiefly  studious  of  truth,  without  affecting  any  ornaments  of 
learning  or  of  style.  But  the  whole  scene  of  this  voyage  made  so 


Jonathct7i  Swift , D.D . 


167 


strong  an  impression  on  my  mind,  and  is  so  deeply  fixed  in  my  me- 
mory, that,  in  committing  it  to  paper,  I did  not  omit  one  material 
circumstance:  however,  upon  a strict  review,  I blotted  out  several 
passages  of  less  moment,  which  were  in  my  first  copy,  for  fear  of 
being  censured  as  tedious  and  trifling,  whereof  travellers  are  often, 
perhaps  not  without  justice,  accused.41 


THE  FIRST  OF  D RAPIER’S  LETTERS.42 

TO  THE  TRADESMEN,  SHOPKEEPERS,  FARMERS,  AND  COUNTRY  PEOPLE  IN  GENERAL 
OF  THE  KINGDOM  OF  IRELAND. 

Concerning  the  brass  halfpence  coined  by  one  William  Wood , hardwareman,  with  a design  to 
have  them  pass  in  this  kingdom  : 

Wherein  is  shown  the  power  of  his  patent,  the  value  of  his  halfpence,  and  how 
far  every  person  may  be  obliged  to  take  the  same  in  payments,  and  how  to 
behave  himself,  in  case  such  an  attempt  should  be  made  by  Wood,  or  any 
other  person. 

(VERY  proper  to  be  kept  in  every  family.) 

By  M.  B.  Drapier,  1724. 

Brethren,  Friends,  Countrymen,  and  Fellow-subjects  : 

What  I intend  now  to  say  to  you  is,  next  to  your  duty  to  God  and 
the  care  of  your  salvation,  of  the  greatest  concern  to  yourselves  and 
your  children ; your  bread  and  clothing,  and  every  common  neces- 
sary of  life,  entirely  depend  upon  it.  Therefore,  I do  most  earn- 
estly exhort  you  as  men,  as  Christians,  as  parents,  and  as  lovers  of 
your  country,  to  read  this  paper  with  the  utmost  attention,  or  get 
it  read  to  you  by  others  ; which  that  you  may  do  at  the  less  expense, 
I have  ordered  the  printer  to  sell  it  at  the  lowest  rate. 

It  is  a great  fault  among  you  that,  when  a person  writes  with  no 
other  intention  than  to  do  you  good,  you  will  not  be  at  the  pains  to 
read  his  advices.  One  copy  of  this  paper  may  serve  a dozen  of  you, 
whicli  will  be  less  than  a farthing  apiece.  It  is  your  folly  that  you 
have  no  common  or  general  interest  in  your  view,  not  even  the 
wisest  among  you ; neither  do  you  know,  or  enquire,  or  care  who  are 
your  friends,  or  who  are  your  enemies. 


41  The  voyage  to  Brobdingnag  takes  up  eight  chapters,  of  which  the  foregoing  is  the 
first. 

42  In  this  letter  Swift  assumed  the  character  of  a draper,  which  for  some  reason  he 
chose  to  write  Drapier.  The  “ Drapier  ” letters  were  seven  in  number. 


1 68  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

About  four  years  ago  a little  book  was  written  to  advise  all  people 
to  wear  the  manufactures  of  this  our  own  dear  country.  It  had  no 
other  design,  said  nothing  against  the  king  or  parliament,  or  any 
person  whatsoever ; yet  the  poor  printer  was  prosecuted  two  years 
with  the  utmost  violence ; and  even  some  weavers  themselves  (for 
whose  sake  it  was  written),  being  upon  the  jury,  found  him  guilty. 
This  would  be  enough  to  discourage  any  man  from  endeavoring  to 
do  you  good,  when  you  will  either  neglect  him  or  fly  in  his  face  for 
his  pains,  and  when  he  must  expect  only  danger  to  himself,  and  to 
be  fined  and  imprisoned,  perhaps  to  his  ruin. 

However,  I cannot  but  warn  you  once  more  of  the  manifest  de- 
struction before  your  eyes,  if  you  do  not  behave  yourselves  as  you 
ought. 

I will  therefore  first  tell  you  the  plain  story  of  the  fact ; and 
then  I will  lay  before  you  how  you  ought  to  act,  in  common  pru- 
dence, according  to  the  laws  of  your  country. 

The  fact  is  this  : It  having  been  many  years  since  copper  half- 
pence or  farthings  were  last  coined  in  this  kingdom,  they  have  been 
for  some  time  very  scarce,  and  many  counterfeits  passed  about 
under  the  name  of  raps ; several  applications  were  made  to  Eng- 
land that  we  might  have  liberty  to  coin  new  ones,  as  in  former  times 
we  did ; but  they  did  not  succeed.  At  last  one  Mr.  Wood,  a mean, 
ordinary  man — a hardware-dealer — procured  a patent  under  his 
majesty’s  broad  seal  to  coin  £108,000 43  in  copper  for  this  kingdom  ; 
which  patent,  however,  did  not  oblige  any  one  here  to  take  them 
unless  they  pleased.  Now,  you  must  know  that  the  halfpence  and 
farthings  in  England  pass  for  very  little  more  than  they  are  worth, 
and  if  you  should  beat  them  to  pieces  and  sell  them  to  the  brazier, 
you  would  not  lose  much  above  a penny  in  a shilling.  But  Mr. 
Wood  made  his  halfpence  of  such  base  metal,  and  so  much  smaller 
than  the  English  ones,  that  the  brazier  would  hardly  give  you  above 
a penny  of  good  money  for  a shilling  of  his ; so  that  this  sum  of 
£108,000,  in  good  gold  and  silver,  must  be  given  for  trash  that  will 
not  be  worth  eight  or  nine  thousand  pounds  real  value.  But  this  is 
not  the  worst ; for  Mr.  Wood,  when  he  pleases,  may  by  stealth  send 
over  another  £108,000,  and  buy  all  our  goods  for  eleven  parts  in 
twelve  under  the  value.  For  example,  if  a hatter  sells  a dozen  of 
hats  for  55.  apiece,  which  amounts  to  £8,  and  receives  the  pay- 
ment in  Wood’s  coin,  he  really  receives  only  the  value  of  5s. 

43  About  $540,000. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


169 


Perhaps  you  will  wonder  how  such  an  ordinary  fellow  as  this  Mr. 
Wood  could  have  so  much  interest  as  to  get  his  majesty’s  broad 
seal  for  so  great  a sum  of  bad  money  to  be  sent  to  this  poor  coun- 
try ; and  that  all  the  nobility  and  gentry  here  could  not  obtain  the 
same  favor,  and  let  us  make  our  own  halfpence  as  we  used  to  do. 
Now,  I will  make  that  matter  very  plain:  we  are  at  a great  distance 
from  the  king’s  court,  and  have  nobody  there  to  solicit  for  us,  al- 
though a great  number  of  lords  and  squires,  whose  estates  are  here, 
and  are  our  countrymen,  spend  all  their  lives  and  fortunes  there  ; 
but  this  same  Mr.  Wood  was  able  to  attend  constantly  for  his  own 
interest ; he  is  an  Englishman,  and  had  great  friends ; and  it  seems 
knew  very  well  where  to  give  money  to  those  that  would  speak  to 
others  that  could  speak  to  the  king,  and  would  tell  a fair  story ; and 
his  majesty,  and  perhaps  the  great  lord  or  lords  who  advise  him, 
might  think  it  was  for  our  country’s  good  ; and  so,  as  the  lawyers 
express  it,  “the  king  was  deceived  in  his  grant,”  which  often  hap- 
pens in  all  reigns.  And  I am  sure  if  his  majesty  knew  that  such  a 
patent,  if  it  should  take  effect  according  to  the  desire  of  Mr.  Wood, 
would  utterly  ruin  this  kingdom,  which  has  given  such  great  proof 
of  its  loyalty,  he  would  immediately  recall  it,  and  perhaps  show  his 
displeasure  to  somebody  or  other  ; but  a word  to  the  wise  is  enough. 
Most  of  you  have  heard  with  what  anger  our  honorable  House  of 
Commons  received  an  account  of  this  Wood’s  patent.  There  were 
several  fine  speeches  made  upon  it,  and  plain  proofs  that  it  was  all 
a wicked  cheat  from  the  bottom  to  the  top ; and  several  smart  votes 
were  printed  which  that  same  Wood  had  the  assurance  to  answer 
likewise  in  print,  and  in  so  confident  a way,  as  if  he  were  a better 
man  than  our  whole  parliament  put  together. 

This  Wood,  as  soon  as  his  patent  was  passed,  or  soon  after,  sends 
over  a great  many  barrels  of  those  halfpence  to  Cork  and  other  sea- 
port towns,  and  to  get  them  off  offered  a hundred  pounds  in  his 
coin  for  seventy  or  eighty  in  silver  ; but  the  collectors  of  the  king’s 
customs  very  honestly  refused  to  take  them,  and  so  did  almost 
everybody  else.  And  since  the  Parliament  has  condemned  them, 
and  desired  the  king  that  they  might  be  stopped,  all  the  kingdom 
do  abominate  them. 

But  Wood  is  still  working  underhand  to  force  his  halfpence  upon 
us,  and  if  he  can,  by  the  help  of  his  friends  in  England,  prevail  so 
far  as  to  get  an  order  that  the  commissioners  and  collectors  of  the 
king’s  money  shall  receive  them,  and  that  the  army  is  to  be  paid 


1 70  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

with  them,  then  he  thinks  his  work  shall  be  done.  And  this  is  the 
difficulty  you  will  be  under  in  such  a case ; for  the  common  soldier, 
when  he  goes  to  the  market  or  alehouse,  will  offer  this  money,  and 
if  it  be  refused,  perhaps  he  will  swagger  and  hector,  and  threaten  to 
beat  the  butcher  or  alewife,  or  take  the  goods  by  force  and  throw 
them  the  bad  halfpence.  In  this  and  the  like  cases  the  shopkeeper 
or  victualler,  or  any  other  tradesman,  has  no  more  to  do  than  to 
demand  ten  times  the  price  of  his  goods,  if  it  is  to  be  paid  in 
Wood’s  money  ; for  example,  20d.  of  that  money  for  a quart  of  ale, 
and  so  in  all  things  else,  and  not  part  with  his  goods  till  he  gets 
the  money. 

For,  suppose  you  go  to  an  alehouse  with  that  base  money,  and  the 
landlord  gives  you  a quart  for  four  of  those  halfpence,  what  must 
the  victualler  do  ? His  brewer  will  not  be  paid  in  that  coin  ; or,  if 
the  brewer  should  be  such  a fool,  the  farmers  will  not  take  it  from 
them  for  their  bere,44  because  they  are  bound  by  their  leases  to  pay 
their  rent  in  good  and  lawful  money  of  England,  which  this  is  not, 
nor  of  Ireland  neither  ; and  the  squire,  their  landlord,  will  never  be 
so  bewitched  to  take  such  trash  for  his  land,  so  that  it  must  certainly 
stop  somewhere  or  other,  and  wherever  it  stops  it  is  the  same  thing, 
and  we  are  all  undone. 

The  common  weight  of  these  halfpence  is  between  four  and  five 
to  an  ounce — suppose  five  ; then  3s.  4d.  will  weigh  a pound,  and 
consequently  20s.  will  weigh  six  pounds,  butter  weight.  How, 
there  are  many  hundred  farmers  who  pay  £200  a year  rent ; there- 
fore, when  one  of  these  farmers  comes  with  his  half-year’s  rent, 
which  is  £100,  it  will  be  at  least  six  hundred  pounds’  weight,  which 
is  three  horses’  load. 

If  a squire  has  a mind  to  come  to  town  to  buy  clothes  and  wine 
and  spices  for  himself  and  family,  or  perhaps  to  pass  the  winter 
here,  he  must  bring  with  him  five  or  six  horses  well  laden  with 
sacks,  as  the  famers  bring  their  corn ; and  when  his  lady  comes  in 
her  coach  to  our  shops,  it  must  be  followed  by  a car  loaded  with 
Mr.  Wood’s  money.  And  I hope  we  shall  have  the  grace  to  take  it 
for  no  more  than  it  is  worth. 

They  say  Squire  Conolly  [the  speaker]  has  £16,000  a year  ; now, 
if  he  sends  for  his  rent  to  town,  as  it  is  likely  he  does,  he  must- 
have  250  horses  to  bring  up  his  half-year’s  rent,  and  two  or  three 
great  cellars  in  his  house  for  stowage.  But  what  the  bankers  will 


44  A sort  of  barley  in  Ireland. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


171 

do  I cannot  tell,  for  I am  assured  that  some  great  bankers  keep  by 
them  £40,000  in  ready  cash  to  answer  all  payments,  which  sum,  in 
Mr.  Wood's  money,  would  require  1200  horses  to  carry  it. 

For  my  own  part,  I am  already  resolved  what  to  do.  I have  a 
pretty  good  shop  of  Irish  stuffs  and  silks,  and,  instead  of  taking 
Mr.  Wood’s  bad  copper,  I intend  to  truck  with  my  neighbors  the 
butchers  and  bakers  and  brewers  and  the  rest  goods  for  goods  ; and 
the  little  gold  and  silver  I have  I will  keep  by  me,  like  my  heart’s 
blood,  till  better  times,  or  until  I am  just  ready  to  starve,  and  then 
I will  buy  Mr.  Wood’s  money,  as  my  father  did  the  brass  money  in 
King  James’s  time,  who  could  buy  £10  of  it  with  a guinea,  and  I 
hope  to  get  as  much  for  a pistole,  and  so  purchase  bread  from  those 
who  will  be  such  fools  as  to  sell  it  me. 

These  halfpence,  if  they  once  pass,  will  soon  be  counterfeited, 
because  it  may  be  cheaply  done,  the  stuff  is  so  base.  The  Dutch 
likewise  will  probably  do  the  same  thing,  and  send  them  over  to  us 
to  pay  for  our  goods ; and  Mr.  Wood  will  never  be  at  rest  but  coin 
on,  so  that  in  some  years  we  shall  have  at  least  five  times  £108,000 
of  this  lumber.  Now  the  current  money  of  this  kingdom  is  not 
reckoned  to  be  above  £400,000  in  all ; and  while  there  is  a silver 
sixpence  left  these  bloodsuckers  will  never  be  quiet. 

When  once  the  kingdom  is  reduced  to  such  a condition,  I will 
tell  you  what  must  be  the  end  : the  gentlemen  of  estates  will  all 
turn  off  their  tenants  for  want  of  payments,  because,  as  I told  you 
before,  the  tenants  are  obliged  by  their  leases  to  pay  sterling,  which 
is  lawful  current  money  of  England  ; then  they  will  turn  their  own 
farmers,  as  too  many  of  them  do  already,  run  all  into  sheep  where 
they  can,  keeping  only  such  other  cattle  as  are  necessary ; then  they 
will  be  their  own  merchants,  and  send  their  wool,  and  butter,  and 
hides,  and  linen  beyond  sea,  for  ready  money,  and  wine,  and  spices, 
and  silks.  They  will  keep  only  a few  miserable  cottagers:  the 
farmers  must  rob,  or  beg,  or  leave  their  country ; the  shopkeepers 
in  this  and  every  other  town  must  break  and  starve  ; for  it  is  the 
landed  man  that  maintains  the  merchant,  and  shopkeeper,  and 
handicraftsman. 

But  when  the  ’squire  turns  farmer  and  merchant  himself,  all  the 
good  money  he  gets  from  abroad  he  will  hoard  up  to  send  for  Eng- 
land, and  keep  some  poor  tailor  or  weaver  and  the  like  in  his  own 
house,  who  will  be  glad  to  get  bread  at  any  rate. 

I should  never  have  done  if  I were  to  tell  you  all  the  miseries 


172 


The  Prose  anct  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


that  we  shall  undergo  if  we  be  so  foolish  and  wicked  as  to  take  this 
cursed  coin.  It  would  be  very  hard  if  all  Ireland  should  be  put 
into  one  scale  and  this  sorry  fellow  Wood  into  the  other  ; that  Mr. 
Wood  should  weigh  down  this  whole  kingdom,  by  which  England 
gets  above  a million  of  good  money  every  year  clear  into  their  pock- 
ets : and  that  is  more  than  the  English  do  by  all  the  world  besides. 

But  your  great  comfort  is,  that  as  his  majesty’s  patent  does  not 
oblige  you  to  take  this  money,  so  the  laws  have  not  given  the  crown 
a power  of  forcing  the  subject  to  take  what  money  the  king  pleases ; 
for  then,  by  the  same  reason,  we  might  be  bound  to  take  pebble- 
stones, or  cockle-shells,  or  stamped  leather,  for  current  coin,  if  ever 
we  should  happen  to  live  under  an  ill  prince,  who  might  likewise, 
by  the  same  power,  make  a guinea  pass  for  ten  pounds,  a shilling 
for  twenty  shillings,  and  so  on,  by  which  he  would,  in  a short  time, 
get  all  the  silver  and  gold  of  the  kingdom  into  his  own  hands,  and 
leave  us  nothing  but  brass  or  leather,  or  what  he  pleased.  Neither 
is  anything  reckoned  more  cruel  and  oppressive  in  the  French  Gov- 
ernment than  their  common  practice  of  calling  in  all  their  money, 
after  they  have  sunk  it  very  low,  and  then  coining  it  anew  at  a 
much  higher  value,  which,  however,  is  not  a thousandth  part  so 
wicked  as  this  abominable  project  of  Mr.  Wood.  For  the  French 
give  their  subjects  silver  for  silver  and  gold  for  gold,  but  this  fel- 
low will  not  so  much  as  give  us  good  brass  or  copper  for  our  gold 
and  silver,  nor  even  a twelfth  part  of  their  worth. 

Having  said  thus  much,  I will  now  go  on  to  tell  you  the  judg- 
ment of  some  great  lawyers  in  this  matter,  whom  I feed  on  purpose 
for  your  sakes,  and  got  their  opinions  under  their  hands,  that  I 
might  be  sure  I went  upon  good  grounds. 

A famous  law-book,  called  “The  Mirror  of  Justice,”  discoursing 
of  the  charters  (or  laws)  ordained  by  our  ancient  kings,  declares 
the  law  to  be  as  follows  : “It  was  ordained  that  no  king  of  this 
realm  should  change  or  impair  the  money,  or  make  any  other  money 
than  of  gold  or  silver,  without  the  assent  of  all  the  counties  ” ; that 
is,  as  my  Lord  Coke  says,  without  the  assent  of  Parliament. 

This  book  is  very  ancient  and  of  great  authority  for  the  time  in 
which  it  was  written,  and  with  that  character  is  often  quoted  by 
that  great  lawyer,  my  Lord  Coke.  By  the  law  of  England  the 
several  metals  are  divided  into  lawful  or  true  metal  and  unlawful  or 
false  metal ; the  former  comprehends  silver  and  gold,  the  latter  all 
baser  metals.  That  the  former  is  only  to  pass  in  payments  appears 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


1 73 


by  an  act  of  Parliament  made  tlie  twentieth  year  of  Edward  I., 
called  the  statute  concerning  the  passing  of  pence,  which  I give 
you  here  as  I got  it  translated  into  English  ; for  some  of  our  laws 
at  that  time  were,  as  I am  tolch  written  in  Latin:  “Whoever,  in 
buying  or  selling,  presumes  to  refuse  a halfpenny  or  farthing  of 
lawful  money,  bearing  the  stamp  which  it  ought  to  have,  let  him  be 
seized  on  as  a contemner  of  the  king’s  majesty  and  cast  into 
prison.  ” 

By  this  statute  no  person  is  to  be  reckoned  a contemner  of  the 
king’s  majesty  and  for  that  crime  to  be  committed  to  prison,  but  he 
who  refuses  to  accept  the  king’s  coin,  made  of  lawful  metal,  by 
which,  as  I observed  before,  silver  and  gold  only  are  intended. 

That  this  is  the  true  construction  of  the  act  appears  not  only 
from  the  plain  meaning  of  the  words,  but  from  my  Lord  Coke’s 
observation  upon  it.  “ By  this  act,”  says  he,  “ it  appears  that  no 
subject  can  be  forced  to  take,  in  buying  or  selling  or  other  pay- 
ment, any  money  made  out  of  lawful  metal — that  is,  of  silver  or 
gold.” 

The  law  of  England  gives  the  king  all  mines  of  gold  and  silver, 
but  not  the  mines  of  other  metals  ; the  reason  of  which  prerogative 
or  power,  as  it  is  given  by  my  Lord  Coke,  is,  because  money  can  be 
made  of  gold  and  silver,  but  not  of  other  metals. 

Pursuant  to  this  opinion  halfpence  and  farthings  were  anciently 
made  of  silver,  which  is  evident  from  the  act  of  Parliament  of 
Henry  IV.,  ch.  4,  whereby  it  is  enacted  as  follows  : “ Item,  for  the 
great  scarcity  that  is  at  present  within  the  realm  of  England  of 
halfpence  and  farthings  of  silver,  it  is  ordained  and  established 
that  the  third  part  of  all  the  money  of  silver  plate  which  shall  be 
brought  to  the  bullion  shall  be  made  into  halfpence  and  farthings.” 
This  shows  that  by  the  words  “ halfpence  and  farthings  of  lawful 
money,”  in  that  statute  concerning  the  passing  of  pence,  is  meant  a 
small  coin  in  halfpence  and  farthings  of  silver. 

This  is  further  manifest  from  the  statute  of  the  9th  Edward  III. , 
ch.  3,  which  enacts  “ that  no  sterling  half-penny  or  farthing  be 
molten  for  to  make  vessels,  or  any  other  thing,  by  the  goldsmiths 
or  others,  upon  forfeiture  of  the  money  so  molten  ” (or  melted). 

By  another  act  in  this  king’s  reign  black  money  was  not  to  be 
current  in  England.  And  by  an  act  in  the  11th  year  of  his  reign, 
ch.  5,  galley  halfpence  were  not  to  pass.  What  kind  of  coin  these 
were  I do  not  know,  but  I presume  they  were  made  of  base  metal. 


174 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


And  these  acts  were  no  new  laws,  but  further  declarations  of  the 
old  laws  relative  to  the  coin. 

Thus  the  law  stands  in  relation  to  coin.  Nor  is  there  any  exam- 
ple to  the  contrary,  except  one  in  Davis’s  Reports,  who  tells  us 
“ that  in  the  time  of  Tyrone’s  rebellion  Queen  Elizabeth  ordered 
money  of  mixed  metal  to  be  coined  in  the  Tower  of  London,  and 
sent  over  hither  for  the  payment  of  the  army,  obliging  all  people 
to  receive  it,  and  commanding  that  all  silver  money  should  be 
taken  only  as  bullion  ” — that  is,  for  as  much  as  it  weighed.  Davis 
tells  us  several  particulars  in  this  matter,  too  long  here  to  trouble 
you  with,  and  “ that  the  Privy  Council  of  this  kingdom  obliged  a 
merchant  in  England  to  receive  this  mixed  money  for  goods  trans- 
mitted hither.” 

But  this  proceeding  is  rejected  by  all  the  best  lawyers  as  con- 
trary to  law,  the  Privy  Council  here  having  no  such  legal  po^er. 
And  besides,  it  is  to  be  considered  that  the  queen  was  then  under 
great  difficulties  by  a rebellion  in  this  kingdom,  assisted  from  Spain, 
and  whatever  is  done  is  great  exigencies  and  dangerous  times 
should  never  be  an  example  to  proceed  by  in  seasons  of  peace  and 
quietness. 

I will  now,  my  dear  friends,  to  save  you  the  trouble,  set  before 
you,  in  short,  what  the  law  obliges  you  to  do  and  what  it  does  not 
oblige  you  to. 

1st..  You  are  obliged  to  take  all  money  in  payments  which  is 
coined  by  the  king,  and  is  of  the  English  standard  or  weight,  pro- 
vided it  be  of  gold  or  silver. 

2dly.  You  are  not  obliged  to  take  any  money  which  is  not  of 
gold  or  silver  ; not  only  the  halfpence  or  farthings  of  England, 
but  of  any  other  country.  And  it  is  merely  for  convenience  or 
ease  that  you  are  content  to  take  them,  because  the  custom  of 
coining  silver  halfpence  and  farthings  had  long  been  left  off,  I sup- 
pose on  account  of  their  being  subject  to  be  lost. 

3dly.  Much  less  are  you  obliged  to  take  those  vile  halfpence  of 
the  same  Wood,  by  which  you  must  lose  almost  eleven  pence  in 
every  shilling. 

Therefore,  my  friends,  stand  to  it  one  and  all,  refuse  this  filthy 
trash.  It  is  no  treason  to  rebel  against  Mr.  Wood.  His  majesty, 
in  his  patent,  obliges  nobody  to  take  these  halfpence ; our  gracious 
prince  has  no  such  ill  advisers  about  him  ; or,  if  he  had,  yet  yon 
see  the  laws  have  not  left  it  in  the  king’s  power  to  force  us  to  take 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


175 


any  coin  but  what  is  lawful,  of  right  standard  gold  and  silver. 
Therefore  you  have  nothing  to  fear. 

And  let  me  in  the  next  place  apply  myself  particularly  to  you 
who  are  the  poorer  sort  of  tradesmen.  Perhaps  you  may  think  you 
will  not  be  so  great  losers  as  the  rich  if  these  halfpence  should 
pass,  because  you  seldom  see  any  silver,  and  your  customers  come 
to  your  shops  or  stalls  with  nothing  but  brass,  which  you  likewise 
find  hard  to  be  got.  But  you  may  take  my  word,  whenever  this 
money  gains  footing  among  you,  you  will  be  utterly  undone.  If 
you  carry  these  halfpence  to  a shop  for  tobacco  or  brandy,  or  any 
other  thing  that  you  want,  the  shopkeeper  will  advance  his  goods 
accordingly,  or  else  he  must  break  and  leave  the  key  under  the 
door.  Do  you  think  I will  sell  you  a yard  of  ten-penny  stuff  for 
twenty  of  Mr.  Wood’s  halfpence  ? No,  not  under  two  hundred  at 
least ; neither  will  I be  at  the  trouble  of  counting,  but  weigh  them 
in  a lump.  I will  tell  you  one  thing  further,  that  if  Mr.  Wood’s  pro- 
ject should  take,  it  would  ruin  even  our  beggars ; for  when  I give  a 
beggar  a halfpenny  it  will  quench  his  thirst  or  go  a good  way  to 
fill  his  belly,  but  the  twelfth  part  of  a halfpenny  will  do  him  no 
more  service  than  if  I should  give  him  three  pins  out  of  my  sleeve. 

In  short,  these  halfpence  are  like  the  “ accursed  thing  which,” 
as  the  Scripture  tells  us,  “ the  children  of  Israel  were  forbidden  to 
touch.  ” They  will  run  about  like  the  plague  and  destroy  every 
one  who  lays  his  hand  upon  them.  I have  heard  scholars  talk  of  a 
man  who  told  the  king  that  he  had  invented  a way  to  torment  peo- 
ple by  putting  them  into  a bull  of  brass  with  fire  under  it,  but  the 
prince  put  the  projector  first  into  his  brazen  bull  to  make  the  ex- 
periment. This  very  much  resembles  the  project  of  Mr.  Wood,  and 
the  like  of  this  may  possibly  be  Mr.  Wood’s  fate,  that  the  brass  he 
contrived  to  torment  this  kingdom  with  may  prove  his  own  torment 
and  his  destruction  at  last. 

N.  B.  The  author  of  this  paper  is  informed,  by  persons  who  have 
made  it  their  business  to  be  exact  in  their  observations  on  the  true 
value  of  these  halfpence,  that  any  person  may  expect  to  get  a quart 
of  two-penny  ale  for  thirty-six  of  them. 

I desire  that  all  families  may  keep  this  paper  carefully  by  them, 
to  refresh  their  memories  whenever  they  shall  have  further  notice 
of  Mr.  Wood’s  halfpence  or  any  other  the  like  imposture. 


r?6 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


A MEDITATION  UPON  A BROOMSTICK. 

According  to  the  style  and  manner  of  the  Honorable  Robert  Boyle's  Meditations . 

This  single  stick,  which  you  now  behold  ingloriously  lying  in 
that  neglected  corner,  I once  knew  in  a flourishing  state  in  a forest ; 
it  was  full  of  sap,  full  of  leaves,  and  full  of  boughs;  but  now  in 
vain  does  the  busy  art  of  man  pretend  to  vie  with  nature  by  tying 
that  withered  bundle  of  twigs  to  its  sapless  trunk;  it  is  now,  at 
best,  but  the  reverse  of  what  it  was — a tree  turned  upside  down, 
the  branches  on  the  earth,  and  the  root  in  the  air;  it  is  now 
handled  by  every  dirty  wench,  condemned  to  do  her  drudgery,  'and 
by  a capricious  kind  of  fate,  destined  to  make  other  things  clean, 
and  be  nasty  itself  ; at  length,  worn  to  the  stumps  in  the  service  of 
the  maids,  it  is  either  thrown  out  of  doors,  or  condemned  to  the 
last  use  of  kindling  a fire.  When  I beheld  this  I sighed,  and  said 
within  myself,  Surely  Mah  is  a Broomstick  ! Mature  sent  him 
into  the  world  strong  and  lusty,  in  a thriving  condition,  wearing 
his  own  hair  on  his  head,  the  proper  branches  of  this  reasoning 
vegetable,  until  the  axe  of  intemperance  has  lopped  off  his  green 
boughs,  and  left  him  a withered  trunk ; he  then  flies  to  art,  and 
puts  on  a periwig,  valuing  himself  upon  an  unnatural  bundle  of 
hairs  (all  covered  with  powder)  that  never  grew  on  his  head  ; but 
now  should  this  our  broomstick  pretend  to  enter  the  scene,  proud 
of  those  birchen  spoils  it  never  bore,  and  all  covered  with  dust, 
though  the  sweepings  of  the  finest  lady’s  chamber,  we  should  be 
apt  to  ridicule  and  despise  its  vanity.  Partial  judges  that  we  are 
of  our  own  excellences  and  other  men’s  defaults  ! 

But  a broomstick  perhaps  you  will  say  is  an  emblem  of  a tree 
standing  on  its  head  ; and  pray  what  is  man  but  a topsy-turvy  crea- 
ture, his  animal  faculties  perpetually  mounted  on  his  rational,  his 
head  where  his  heels  should  be,  grovelling  on  the  earth ; and  yet, 
with  all  his  faults,  he  sets  up  to  be  a universal  reformer  and  cor- 
rector of  abuses,  a remover  of  grievances,  rakes  into  every  slut’s 
corner  of  nature,  bringing  hidden  corruption  to  the  light,  and 
raises  a mighty  dust  where  there  was  none  before,  sharing  deeply  all 
the  while  in  the  very  same  pollutions  he  pretends  to  sweep  away,  till, 
worn  out  to  the  stumps  like  his  brother  besom,  he  is  either  kicked 
out  of  doors,  or  made  use  of  to  kindle  flames  for  others  to  warm 
themselves  by. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


'77 


A TREATISE  ON  GOOD  MANNERS  AND  GOOD  BREEDING.41 

Good  manners  is  the  art  of  making  those  people  easy  with  whom 
we  converse. 

Whoever  makes  the  fewest  persons  uneasy  is  the  best  bred  in  the 
company. 

As  the  best  law  is  founded  upon  reason,  so  are  the  best  manners. 
And  as  some  lawyers  have  introduced  unreasonable  things  into  com- 
mon law,  so  likewise  many  teachers  have  introduced  absurd  things 
into  common  good  manners. 

One  principal  point  of  this  art  is,  to  suit  our  behavior  to  the 
three  several  degrees  of  men ; our  superiors,  our  equals,  and  those 
below  us. 

For  instance,  to  press  either  of  the  two  former  to  eat  or  drink  is 
a breach  of  manners ; but  a tradesman  or  a farmer  must  be  thus 
treated,  or  else  it  will  be  difficult  to  persuade  them  that  they  are 
welcome. 

Pride,  ill-nature,  and  want  of  sense,  are  the  three  great  sources 
of  ill-manners  : without  some  one  of  these  defects,  no  man  will  be- 
have himself  ill  for  want  of  experience,  or  of  what,  in  the  language 
of  fools,  is  called  knowing  the  world. 

I defy  any  one  to  assign  an  incident  wherein  reason  will  not  direct 
us  what  to  say  or  do  in  company,  if  we  are  not  misled  by  pride  or 
ill-nature. 

Therefore  I insist  that  good  sense  is  the  principal  foundation  of 
good  manners;  but  because  the  former  is  a gift  which  very  few 
among  mankind  are  possessed  of,  therefore  all  the  civilized  nations 
of  the  world  have  agreed  upon  fixing  some  rules  upon  common  be- 
havior best  suited  to  their  general  customs  or  fancies,  as  a kind  of 
artificial  good  sense,  to  supply  the  defects  of  reason.  Without 
which  the  gentlemanly  part  of  dunces  would  be  perpetually  at  cuffs, 
as  they  seldom  fail  when  they  happen  to  be  drunk,  or  engaged  in 
squabbles  about  women  or  play.  And,  God  be  thanked,  there 
hardly  happens  a duel  in  a year,  which  may  not  be  imputed  to  one 
of  these  three  motives.  Upon  which  account,  I should  be  exceed- 
ingly sorry  to  find  the  legislature  make  any  new  laws  against  the 
practice  of  duelling  ; because  the  methods  are  easy  and  many  for  a 
wise  man  to  avoid  a quarrel  with  honor,  or  engage  in  it  with  inno- 


45 “The  result  of  much  good  sense,  some  good  nature,  and  a little  self-denial  for 
the  sake  of  others,  and  with  a view  to  obtain  the  same  indulgence  from  them.”— Lord 
Chesterfield. 


i/8  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

cence.  And  I can  discover  no  political  evil  in  suffering  bullies, 
sharpers,  and  rakes,  to  rid  the  world  of  each  other  by  a method 
of  their  own,  where  the  law  has  not  been  able  to  find  an  ex- 
pedient. 

As  the  common  forms  of  good  manners  were  intended  for  regu- 
lating the  conduct  of  those  who  have  weak  understandings  ; so  they 
have  been  corrupted  by  the  persons  for  whose  use  they  were  con- 
trived. For  these  people  have  fallen  into  a needless  and  endless 
way  of  multiplying  ceremonies,  which  have  been  extremely  trouble- 
some to  those  who  practise  them,  and  insupportable  to  everybody 
*else ; insomuch  that  wise  men  are  often  more  uneasy  at  the  over- 
civility  of  these  refiners  than  they  could  possibly  be  in  the  conver- 
sation of  peasants  or  mechanics. 

The  impertinences  of  this  ceremonial  behavior  are  nowhere  bet- 
ter seen  than  at  those  tables  where  the  ladies  preside,  who  value 
themselves  upon  account  of  their  good  breeding ; where  a man  must 
reckon  upon  passing  an  hour  without  doing  any  one  thing  he  has  a 
mind  to,  unless  he  will  be  so  hardy  as  to  break  through  all  the  set- 
tled decorum  of  the  family.  She  determines  what  he  loves  best, 
and  how  much  he  shall  eat;  and  if  the  master  of  the  house  happens 
to  be  of  the  same  disposition,  he  proceeds  in  the  same  tyrannical 
manner  to  prescribe  in  the  drinking  part:  at  the  same  time  you  are 
under  the  necessity  of  answering  a thousand  apologies  for  your  en- 
tertainment. And  although  a good  deal  of  this  humor  is  pretty 
well  worn  off  among  many  people  of  the  best  fashion,  yet  too  much 
of  it  still  remains,  especially  in  the  country,  where  an  honest  gen- 
tleman assured  me,  that  having  been  kept  four  days  against  his  will 
at  a friend’s  house,  with  all  the  circumstances  of  hiding  his  boots, 
locking  up  the  stable,  and  other  contrivances  of  the  like  nature,  he 
could  not  remember,  from  the  moment  he  came  into  the  house  to 
the  moment  he  left  it,  any  one  thing  wherein  his  inclination  was 
not  directly  contradicted,  as  if  the  whole  family  had  entered  into  a 
combination  to  torment  him. 

But,  besides  all  this,  it  would  be  endless  to  recount  the  many 
foolish  and  ridiculous  accidents  I have  observed  among  these  unfor- 
tunate proselytes  to  ceremony.  I have  seen  a duchess  fairly  knocked 
down,  by  the  precipitancy  of  an  officious  coxcomb  running  to  save 
her  the  trouble  of  opening  a door.  I remember,  upon  a birth-day 
at  court,  a great  lady  was  rendered  utterly  disconsolate  by  a dish  of 
sauce  let  fall  by  a page  directly  upon  her  head-dress  and  brocade 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


'7  9 


while  she  gave  a sudden  turn  to  her  elbow  upon  some  point  of 
ceremony  with  the  person  whd  sat  next  to  her.  Monsieur  Buys, 
the  Dutch  envoy,  whose  politics  and  manners  were  much  of  a size, 
brought  a son  with  him,  about  thirteen  years  old,  to  a great  table  at 
court.  The  boy  and  his  father,  whatever  they  put  on  their  plates, 
they  first  offered  round  in  order  to  every  person  in  company,  so 
that  we  could  not  get  a minute’s  quiet  during  the  whole  dinner. 
At  last  their  two  plates  happened  to  encounter,  and  with  so  much 
violence,  that,  being  china,  they  broke  in  twenty  pieces,  and  stained 
half  the  company  with  sweetmeats  and  cream. 

There  is  a pendantry  in  manners,  as  in  all  arts  and  sciences,  and 
sometimes  in  trades.  Pedantry  is  properly  the  overrating  of  any 
kind  of  knowledge  we  pretend  to.  And  if  that  kind  of  knowledge 
be  a trifle  in  itself,  the  pedantry  is  the  greater.  For  which  reason 
I look  upon  fiddlers,  dancing-masters,  heralds,  masters  of  the  cere- 
mony, etc.,  to  be  greater  pedants  than  Lipsius  or  the  elder  Scaliger. 
With  this  kind  of  pedants  the  court,  while  I knew  it,  was  always 
plentifully  stocked  ; I mean  from  the  gentleman  usher  (at  least)  in- 
clusive, downward  to  the  gentleman  porter,  who  are,  generally 
speaking,  the  most  insignificant  race  of  people  that  this  island  can 
afford,  and  with  the  smallest  tincture  of  good  manners,  which  is  the 
only  trade  they  profess.  For,  being  wholly  illiterate,  and  conversing 
chiefly  with  each  other,  they  reduce  the  whole  system  of  breeding 
within  the  forms  and  circles  of  their  several  offices ; and,  as  they 
are  below  the  notice  of  ministers,  they  live  and  die  in  court  under 
all  revolutions,  with  great  obsequiousness  to  those  who  are  in  any 
degree  of  credit  or  favor,  and  with  rudeness  and  insolence  to  every- 
body else.  Whence  I have  long  concluded  that  good  manners  are 
not  a plant  of  the  court  growth  ; for,  if  they  were,  those  people  who 
have  understandings  directly  of  a level  for  such  acquirements,  who 
have  served  such  long  apprenticeships  to  nothing  else,  would  cer- 
tainly have  picked  them  up.  For,  as  to  the  great  officers,  who  at- 
tend the  prince’s  person  or  councils,  or  preside  in  his  family,  they 
are  a transient  body,  who  have  no  better  a title  to  good  manners 
than  their  neighbors,  nor  will  probably  have  recourse  to  gentlemen 
ushers  for  instruction.  So  that  I know  little  to  be  learned  at  court 
upon  this  head,  except  in  the  material  circumstance  of  dress, 
wherein  the  authority  of  the  maids  of  honor  must  indeed  be  allowed 
to  be  almost  equal  to  that  of  a favorite  actress. 

I remember  a passage  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  told  me — that  going 


i8o  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

to  receive  Prince  Eugene  of  Savoy  at  his  landing,  in  order  to  con- 
duct him  immediately  to  the  queen,  the  prince  said  he  was  much 
concerned  that  he  could  not  see  her  majesty  that  night ; for  Mon- 
sieur Hoffman  (who  was  then  by)  had  assured  his  highness  that 
he  could  not  be  admitted  into  her  presence  with  a tied-up  periwig  ; 
that  his  equipage  was  not  arrived ; and  that  he  had  endeavored  in 
vain  to  borrow  a long  one  among  all  his  valets  and  pages.  My  lord 
turned  the  matter  into  a jest,  and  brought  the  prince  to  her  ma- 
jesty ; for  which  he  was  highly  censured  by  the  whole  tribe  of  gen- 
tleman ushers,  among  whom  Monsieur  Hoffman,  an  old  dull  resident 
of  the  emperor’s,  had  picked  up  this  material  point  of  ceremony,  and 
which,  I believe,  was  the  best  lesson  he  had  learned  in  five-and_ 
twenty  years’  residence. 

I make  a difference  between  good  manners  and  good  breeding, 
although,  in  order  to  vary  my  expression,  I am  sometimes  forced  to 
confound  them.  By  the  first  I only  understand  the  art  of  remem- 
bering and  applying  certain  settled  forms  of  general  behavior.  But 
'good  breeding  is  of  a much  larger  extent;  for,  besides  an  uncommon 
degree  of  literature,  sufficient  to  qualify  a gentleman  for  reading  a 
play  or  a political  pamphlet,  it  takes  in  a great  compass  of  know- 
ledge, no  less  than  that  of  dancing,  fighting,  gaming,  making  the 
circle  of  Italy,  riding  the  great  horse,  and  speaking  French,  not  to 
mention  some  other  secondary  or  subaltern  accomplishments,  which 
are  more  easily  acquired.  So  that  the  difference  between  good 
breeding  and  good  manners  lies  in  this — that  the  former  cannot  be 
attained  to  by  the  best  understandings  without  study  and  labor, 
whereas  a tolerable  degree  of  reason  will  instruct  us  in  every  part 
of  good  manners  without  other  assistance. 

I can  think  of  nothing  more  useful  upon  this  subject  than  to 
point  out  some  particulars  wherein  the  very  essentials  of  good  man- 
ners are  concerned,  the  neglect  or  perverting  of  which  does  very 
much  disturb  the  good  commerce  of  the  world  by  introducing  a 
traffic  of  mutual  uneasiness  in  most  companies. 

First,  a necessary  part  of  good  manners  is  a punctual  observance 
of  time  at  our  own  dwellings  or  those  of  others  or  at  third  places, 
whether  upon  matter  of  civility,  business,  or  diversion,  which  rule, 
though  it  be  a plain  dictate  of  common  reason,  yet  the  greatest 
minister  I ever  knew  was  the  greatest  trespasser  against  it,  by  which 
all  his  business  doubled  upon  him,  and  placed  him  in  a continual 
arrear,  upon  which  I often  used  to  rally  him  as  deficient  in  point 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


181 


of  good  manners.  I have  known  more  than  one  ambassador  and 
secretary  of  state,  with  a very  moderate  portion  of  intellectuals, 
execute  their  offices  with  good  success  and  applause  by  the  mere 
force  of  exactness  and  regularity.  If  you  duly  observe  time  for  the 
service  of  another,  it  doubles  the  obligation ; if  upon  your  own  ac- 
count, it  would  be  manifest  folly  as  well  as  ingratitude  to  neglect 
it;  if  both  are  concerned,  to  make  your  equal  or  inferior  attend  on 
you  to  his  own  disadvantage  is  pride  and  injustice. 

Ignorance  of  forms  cannot  properly  be  styled  ill  manners,  because 
forms  are  subject  to  frequent  changes,  and,  consequently,  being  not 
founded  upon  reason,  are  beneath  a wise  man’s  regard.  Besides, 
they  vary  in  every  country,  and,  after  a short  period  of  time,  very 
frequently  in  the  same  ; so  that  a man  who  travels  must  needs  be  at 
first  a stranger  to  them  in  every  court  through  which  he  passes  ; 
and,  perhaps,  at  his  return  as  much  a stranger  in  his  own,  and, 
after  all,  they  are  easier  to  be  remembered  or  forgotten  than  faces 
or  names. 

Indeed,  among  the  many  impertinences  that  superficial  young 
men  bring  with  them  from  abroad,  this  bigotry  of  forms  is  one  of 
the  principal,  and  more  predominant  than  the  rest,  who  look  upon 
them  not  only  as  if  they  were  matters  capable  of  admitting  of  choice, 
but  even  as  points  of  importance,  and  are  therefore  zealous  on  all 
occasions  to  introduce  and  propogate  the  new  forms  and  fashions 
they  have  brought  back  with  them,  so  that,  usually  speaking,  the 
worst  bred  person  in  company  is  a young  traveller  just  returned 
from  abroad. 


SOME  OF  SWIFT’S  LETTERS. 

A LETTER  TO  THE  EARL  OF  PEMBROKE. 

1709,  at  a conjecture. 

My  Lord  : It  is  now  a good  while  since  I resolved  to  take  some 
occasions  of  congratulating  with  your  lordship,  and  condoling  with 
the  public,  upon  your  lordship’s  leaving  the  Admiralty;  and  I 
thought  I could  never  choose  a better  time  than  when  I am  in  the 
country  with  my  lord  bishop  of  Ciogher  and  his  brother  the  doctor ; 
for  we  pretend  to  a triumvirate  of  as  humble  servants  and  true  ad- 
mirers of  your  lordship  as  any  you  have  in  both  islands.  You  may 
call  them  a triumvirate ; for,  if  you  choose  to  try-um}  they  will  vie 


182 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


with  the  best,  and  are  of  the  first  rate , though  they  are  not  men  of 
war,  but  men  of  the  church.  To  say  the  truth,  it  was  a pity  your 
lordship  should  be  confined  to  the  Fleet,  when  you  are  not  in  debt. 
Though  your  lordship  is  cast  away,  you  are  not  sunk';  nor  ever 
will  be,  since  nothing  is  out  of  your  lordship’s  depth.  Dr.  Ashe 
says,  it  is  but  justice  that  your  lordship,  who  is  a man  of  letters, 
should  be  placed  upon  the  post-office ; and  my  lord  bishop  adds, 
that  he  hopes  to  see  your  lordship  tossed  from  that  post  to  be  a 
pillar  of  state  again  ; which  he  desired  I would  put  in  by  way  of 
postscript . I am,  my  lord,  etc.  Jonathan  Swift. 


TO  MR.  SECRETARY  ST.  JOHN. 

January  7,  1711. 

Sir:  Though  I should  not  value  such  usage  from  a Secretary 
of  State  and  a great  minister,  yet,  when  I consider  the  person  it 
comes  from,  I can  endure  it  no  longer.  I would  have  you  know, 
sir,  that  if  the  queen  gave  you  a dukedom  and  the  garter  to-morrow, 
with  the  treasury  staff  at  the  end  of  them,  I would  regard  you  no 
more  than  if  you  were  not  worth  a groat.  I could  almost  resolve, 
in  spite,  not  to  find  fault  with  my  victuals  or  to  be  quarrelsome  to- 
morrow at  your  table;  but  if  I do  not  take  the  first  opportunity  to 
let  all  the  world  know  some  qualities  in  you  that  you  take  most 
care  to  hide,  may  my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning.  After  which 
threatening,  believe  me,  if  you  please,  to  be  with  the  greatest  re- 
spect, sir,  your  most  obedient,  most  obliged,  and  most  humble,  ser- 
vant, Jonathan  Swift. 


TO  MR.  GIRALDI. 

Dublin,  February  25,  1714-15. 

Sir:  I take  the  liberty  to  recommend  to  you  the  bearer,  Mr. 
Howard,  a learned  gentleman  of  good  family  in  this  country,  who 
intends  to  make  the  tour  of  Italy,  and  being  a canon  in  my  deanery, 
and  professor  of  a college  in  this  University,  would  fain  be  confirmed 
in  his  heresy  by  travelling  among  Catholics.  And  after  all,  sir,  it 
is  but  just  that,  since  you  have  borrowed  our  English  frankness  and 
sincerity  to  engraft  on  your  Italian  politeness,  some  of  us  tramon- 
tanes should  make  reprisals  on  you  by  travelling.  You  will  also 


Jonathan  Swift , D,D. 


1 83 


permit  me  to  beg  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  present  my  most  humble 
duty  to  his  royal  highness  the  Grand  Duke. 

With  regard  to  myself,  I will  be  so  free  as  to  tell  you  that  two 
months  before  the  queen’s  decease,  finding  that  it  was  impossible 
to  reconcile  my  friends  of  the  ministry,  I retired  to  a country-house 
in  Berkshire  ; from  whence  after  the  melancholy  event  I came  over 
to  Ireland,  where  I now  reside  upon  my  deanery,  and  with  Chris- 
tian resignatiou  wait  for  the  destruction  of  our  cause  and  of  my 
friends,  which  the  reigning  faction  are  daily  contriving.  For  these 
gentlemen  are  absolutely  determined  to  strike  oft  half  a dozen  heads 
of  the  best  men  in  England,  whom  you  intimately  knew  and 
esteemed.  God  knows  what  will  be  the  consequence.  For  my  part 
I have  bid  adieu  to  politics,  and  with  the  good  leave  of  the  honest 
men  who  are  now  in  power,  I shall  spend  the  remainder  of  my  days 
in  my  hermitage,  and  attend  entirely  to  my  own  private  affairs. 
Adieu,  sir,  and  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  I am,  with  great 
respect,  sir,  yours,  etc.  Jonathan  Swift. 


TO  MISS  VANHOMRIGH. 

October  15,  1720. 

I sit  down  with  the  first  opportunity  I have  to  write  to  you  ; and 
the  Lord  knows  when  I can  find  conveniency  to  send  this  letter ; 
for  all  the  morning  I am  plagued  with  impertinent  visits,  below 
any  man  of  sense  or  honor  to  endure  if  it  were  any  way  avoidable. 
Dinners  and  afternoons  and  evenings  are  spent  abroad  in  walking, 
to  keep  and  avoid  spleen  as  far  as  I can ; so  that,  when  I am  not  so 
good  a correspondent  as  I could  wish,  you  are  not  to  quarrel  and  be 
governor  ; but  to  impute  it  to  my  situation,  and  to  conclude  infalli- 
bly that  I have  the  same  respect  and  kindness  for  you  I ever  pro- 
fessed to  have,  and  shall  ever  preserve ; because  you  will  always 
merit  the  utmost  that  can  be  given  you,  especially  if  you  go  on  to 
read  and  still  further  improve  your  mind  and  the  talents  that  nature 
has  given  you.  I am  in  much  concern  for  poor  Mobkin  and  the 
more  because  I am  sure  you  are  so  too.  You  ought  to  be  as  cheer- 
ful as  you  can,  for  both  our  sakes,  and  read  pleasant  things  that  will 
make  you  laugh,  and  not  sit  moping  with  your  elbows  on  your  knees 
on  a little  stool  by  the  fire.  It  is  most  infallible  that  riding  would 
do  Mobkin  more  good  than  any  other  thing,  provided  fair  days  and 


184  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

warm  clothes  be  provided  ; and  so  it  would  to  you  ; and  if  yon  lose 
any  skin,  you  know  Job  says,  “ skin  for  skin  will  a man  give  for  his 
life.”  It  is  either  Job  or  Satan  says  so,  for  aught  you  know.  I am 
getting  an  ill  head  in  this  cursed  town,  for  want  of  exercise.  I 
wish  I were  to  walk  with  you  fifty  times  about  your  garden,  and  then 
drink  your  coffee.  I was  sitting  last  night  with  half  a score  of  both 
sexes  for  an  hour,  and  grew  as  weary  as  a dog.  Everybody  grows 
silly  and  disagreeable,  or  I grow  monkish  and  splenetic,  which  is 
the  same  thing.  Conversation  is  full  of  nothing  but  South  Sea, 
and  the  ruin  of  the  kingdom,  and  scarcity  of  money. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


to  me.  pope.46 

Dublin,  November  17,  1726. 

I am  just  come  from  answering  a letter  of  Mrs.  Howard’s,  writ 
in  such  mystical  terms  that  I should  never  have  found  out  the 
meaning  if  a book  had  not  been  sent  me  called  “ Gulliver’s  Trav- 
els,” of  which  you  say  so  much  in  yours.  I read  the  book  over, 
and  in  the  second  volume  observed  several  passages  which  appear 
to  be  patched  and  altered,  and  the  style  of  a different  sort,  unless 
I am  mistaken.  Dr.  Arbuthnot  likes  the  projectors  least ; others, 
you  tell  me,  the  flying  island ; some  think  it  wrong  to  be  so  hard 
upon  whole  bodies  or  corporations,  yet  the  general  opinion  is,  that 
reflections  on  particular  persons  are  most  to  be  blamed  ; so  that  in 
these  cases  I think  the  best  method  is  to  let  censure  and  opinion 
take  their  course.  A bishop  here  said  that  book  was  full  of  im- 
probable lies,  and  for  his  part  he  hardly  believed  a word  of  it ; and 
so  much  for  Gulliver. 

Going  to  England  is  a very  good  thing,  if  it  were  not  attended 
with  an  ugly  circumstance  of  returning  to  Ireland.  It  is  a shame 
you  do  not  persuade  your  ministers  to  keep  me  on  that  side,  if  it 
were  but  by  a court  expedient  of  keeping  me  in  prison  for  a plot- 
ter ; but  at  the  same  time  I must  tell  you  that  such  journeys  very 
much  shorten  my  life,  for  a month  here  is  longer  than  six  at  Twick- 
enham. 

How  comes  friend  Gay  to  be  so  tedious  ? Another  man  can  pub- 
lish fifty  thousand  lies  sooner  than  he  can  publish  fifty  fables. 


49  The  celebrated  poet  Pope  was  a Catholic,  a native  of  England,  and  died  in  1744. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


185 


I am  just  going  to  perform  a very  good  office  ; it  is  to  assist  with 
the  archbishop  in  degrading  a parson  who  couples  all  our  beggars, 
by  which  I shall  make  one  happy  man,  and  decide  the  great  ques- 
tion of  an  indelible  character  in  favor  of  the  principles  in  fashion. 
This  I hope  you  will  represent  to  the  ministry  in  my  favor  as  a point 
of  merit ; so  farewell  till  I return. 

I am  come  back,  and  have  deprived  the  parson,  who,  by  a law 
here,  is  to  be  hanged  the  next  couple  he  marries.  He  declared  to  us 
that  he  resolved  to  be  hanged — only  desired  that  when  he  was  to  go 
to  the  gallows  the  archbishop  would  take  off  his  excommunication. 
Is  not  he  a good  Catholic  ? and  yet  he  is  but  a Scotchman.  This  is 
the  only  Irish  event  I ever  troubled  you  with,  and  I think  it  deserves 
notice.  Let  me  add  that  if  I were  Gulliver’s  friend  I would  desire 
all  my  acquaintance  to  give  out  that  his  copy  was  basely  mangled, 
and  abused,  and  added  to,  and  blotted  out,  by  the  printer,  for  so 
to  me  it  seems,  in  the  second  volume  particularly.  Adieu. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


TO  THE  ABBE  DES  FONTAINES. 


August,  1727. 

Sir  : It  is  above  a month  since  I received  your  letter  of  the  4th 
of  July,  but  the  copy  of  the  second  edition  of  your  translation  is 
not  yet  come  to  hand.  I have  read  the  preface  to  the  first,  and 
give  me  leave  to  tell  you  that  I was  very  much  surprised  to  find 
that  at  the  same  time  you  mentioned  the  country  in  which  I was 
born,  you  also  took  notice  of  me  by  name  as  the  author  of  that 
book,  though  I have  had  the  misfortune  of  incurring  the  displea- 
sure of  some  of  our  ministers  by  it,  and  never  acknowledged  it  as 
mine.  Your  behavior,  however,  in  this  respect,  though  somewhat 
exceptionable,  shall  not  prevent  me  from  doing  you  justice.  The 
generality  of  translators  are  very  lavish  of  their  praises  on  such 
works  as  they  undertake  to  render  into  their  own  language,  imagin- 
ing, perhaps,  that  their  reputation  depends  in  some  measure  on  that 
of  the  authors  whom  they  have  thought  proper  to  translate.  But 
you  were  sensible  of  your  own  abilities,  which  rendered  all  such 
precautions  needless.  Capable  of  mending  a bad  book — an  enter- 
prise more  difficult  than  to  wTrite  a good  one — you  have  ventured  to 


1 86  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

publish  the  translation  of  a work  which  you  affirm  to  abound  with 
nonsense,  puerilities,  etc.  We  think  with  you  that  nations  do  not 
always  agree  in  taste,  but  are  inclined  to  believe  that  good  taste  is 
the  same  whprever  there  are  men  of  wit,  judgment,  and  learning. 
Therefore,  if  the  <{  Travels  of  Gulliver”  are  calculated  only  for  the 
British  islands,  that  voyager  must  certainly  be  reckoned  a paltry 
writer.  The  same  vices  and  folly  prevail  in  all  countries,  at  least 
in  all  the  civilized  parts  of  Europe  ; and  an  author  who  would  sit 
down  to  write  only  for  a single  town,  a province,  a kingdom,  or 
even  a century,  so  far  from  deserving  to  be  translated,  does  not  de- 
serve to  be  read. 

This  Gulliver’s  adherents,  who  are  very  numerous  here,  maintain 
that  his  book  will  last  as  long  as  our  language,  because  he  does  not 
derive  his  merit  from  certain  modes  of  expression  or  thought,  but 
from  a series  of  observations  on  the  imperfections,  follies,  and  vices 
of  mankind. 

You  may  very  w’ell  judge  that  the  people  I have  been  speaking 
of  do  not  approve  of  your  criticisms ; and  you  will  doubtless  be 
surprised  when  I inform  you  that  they  regard  this  sea-surgeon  as  a 
grave  author  who  never  departs  from  his  character,  and  who  uses 
no  foreign  embellishment — never  pretends  to  set  up  for  a wit — but 
is  satisfied  with  giving  the  public  a plain  and  simple  narrative  of 
the  adventures  that  befell  him,  and  of  the  things  he  saw  and  heard 
in  the  course  of  his  voyages. 

With  regard  to  the  article  relating  to  Lord  Carteret,  without 
waiting  for  any  information  whence  you  borrowed  your  intelligence, 
I shall  take  the  liberty  to  tell  you  that  you  have  written  only  one- 
half  of  the  truth  ; and  that  this  real  or  supposed  Drapier  has  saved 
Ireland,  by  spiriting  up  the  whole  nation  to  oppose  a project  by 
which  a certain  number  of  individuals  would  have  been  enriched 
at  the  public  expense. 

A series  of  accidents  have  intervened  which  will  prevent  my 
going  to  France  at  present,  and  I am  now  too  old  to  hope  for  any 
future  opportunity.  I am  sensible  that  this  is  a great  loss  to  me. 
The  only  consolation  that  remains  is  to  think  that  I shall  be  the 
better  able  to  bear  that  spot  of  ground  to  which  fortune  has  con- 
demned me,  etc.  Jonathan  Swift. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


187 


TO  MR.  GAY.4T 

Dublin,  November  27,  1727. 

I entirely  approve  your  refusal  of  that  employment  and  your 
writing  to  the  queen.  I am  perfectly  confident  you  have  a keen 
enemy  in  the  ministry.48  God  forgive  him,  but  not  till  he  puts 
himself  in  a state  to  be  forgiven.  Upon  reasoning  with  myself,  I 
should  hope  they  are  gone  too  far  to  discard  you  quite,  and  that  they 
will  give  you  something  which,  although  much  less  than  they 
ought,  will  be  (as  far  as  it  is  worth)  better  circumstantiated  ; and 
since  you  already  just  live,  a middling  help  will  make  you  just 
tolerable.  Your  lateness  in  life  (as  you  so  soon  call  it)  might  be 
improper  to  begin  the  world  with,  but  almost  the  eldest  men  may 
hope  to  see  changes  in  a court.  A minister  is  always  seventy  ; you 
are  thirty  years  younger ; and  consider,  Cromwell  himself  did  not 
begin  to  appear  till  he  was  older  than  you.  I beg  you  will  be 
thrifty  and  learn  to  value  a shilling,  which  Dr.  Birch  said  was  a 
serious  thing.  Get  a stronger  fence  about  your  £1,000  and  throw 
the  inner  fence  into  the  heap,  and  be  advised  by  your  Twickenham 
landlord  and  me  about  an  annuity.  You  are  the  most  refractory, 
honest,  good-natured  man  I have  ever  known  ; I could  argue  out 
this  paper.  I am  very  glad  your  “ Opera  ” is  finished,  and  hope  your 
friends  will  join  the  readier  to  make  it  succeed,  because  you  are 
ill  used  by  others. 

I have  known  courts  these  thirty-six  years,  and  know  they  differ  ; 
but  in  some  things  they  are  extremely  constant : first,  in  the  trite 
old  maxim  of  a minister’s  never  forgiving  those  he  has  injured ; 
secondly,  in  the  insincerity  of  those  who  would  be  thought  the  best 
friends  ; thirdly,  in  the  love  of  fawning,  cringing,  and  tale-bearing ; 
fourthly,  in  sacrificing  those  whom  we  really  wish  well  to  a point 
of  interest  or  intrigue ; fifthly,  in  keeping  everything  worth  taking 
for  those  who  can  do  no  service  or  disservice. 

I bought  your  “ Opera”  to-day  for  sixpence,  a cursed  print.  I find 
there  is  neither  dedication  nor  preface,  both  which  wants  I approve  ; 
it  is  in  the  grand  gout. 

We  are  as  full  of  it,  pro  modulo  nostro,  as  London  can  be  ; con- 
tinually acting,  houses  crammed,  and  the  Lord-Lieutenant  several 
times  laughing  there  his  heart  out.  I did  not  understand  that  the 

47  An  English  poet  of  some  note  who  died  1732. 

48  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 


iS8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


scene  of  Locket  and  Peichum's  quarrel  was  an  imitation  of  one  be- 
tween Brutus  and  Cassius  till  I was  told  it.  I wish  Macheath , 
when  he  was  going  to  be  hanged,  had  imitated  Alexander  the  Great 
when  he  was  dying  ; I would  have  had  his  fellow-rogues  desire  his 
commands  about  a successor,  and  he  to  answer.  Let  it  be  the  most 
worthy,  etc.  We  hear  a million  of  stories  about  the  opera,  of  the 
applause  of  the  song,  “ That  was  levelled  at  me,”  when  two  great 
ministers  were  in  a box  together  and  all  the  world  staring  at  them. 

I am  heartily  glad  your  opera  hath  mended  your  purse,  though  per- 
haps it  may  spoil  your  court. 

I will  excuse  Sir the  trouble  of  a letter.  When  ambassadors  . 

came  from  Troy  to  condole  with  Tiberius  upon  the  death  of  his 
nephew  after  two  years,  the  emperor  answered  that  he  likewise 
condoled  with  them  for  the  untimely  death  of  Hector.  I always 
loved  and  respected  him  very  much,  and  do  still  as  much  as  ever, 
and  it  is  a return  sufficient  if  he  pleases  to  accept  the  offers  of  my 
most  humble  service. 

The  “ Beggars’  Opera  ” hath  knocked  down  “ Gulliver.”  I hope 
to  see  Pope’s  “ Dulness ” knock  down  the  “Beggars’  Opera,”  but 
not  till  it  hath  fully  done  its  job. 

To  expose  vice  and  make  people  laugh  with  innocence  does  more 
public  service  than  all  the  ministers  of  state  from  Adam  to  Wal- 
pole, and  so  adieu.  Jonathan  Swift. 


TO  ME.  WOEEALL. 

Maeket  Hill,  January  4,  1729. 

I had  your  long  letter,  and  thank  you  heartily  for  your  concern 
about  my  health.  I continue  very  deaf  and  giddy;  but,  however, 
I would  certainly  come  to  town,  not  only  for  my  visitation,  but  be- 
cause in  these  circumstances,  and  in  winter,  I would  rather  be  at 
home.  But  it  is  now  Saturday  night,  and  that  beast  Sheridan  is 
not  yet  come,  although  it  has  been  thawing  since  Monday.  If  I do 
not  come,  you  know  what  to  do. 

My  humble  service  to  our  friends,  as  usual. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


Jonathan  Swift , D.D. 


189 


TO  MR.  POPE. 

May  12,  1735. 

Your  letter  was  sent  me  yesterday  by  Mr.  Stopford,49  who  landed 
the  same  day,  but  I have  not  yet  seen  him.  As  to  my  silence,  God 
knows  it  is  my  great  misfortune.  My  little  domestic  affairs  are  in 
great  confusion  by  the  villany  of  agents  and  the  miseries  of  this 
kingdom,  where  there  is  no  money  to  be  had  ; nor  am  I unconcerned 
to  see  all  things  tending  towards  absolute  power  in  both  nations  (it 
is  here  in  perfection  already),  although  I shall  not  live  to  see  it 
established.  This  condition  of  things,  both  public  and  personal  to 
myself,  has  given  me  such  a kind  of  despondency  that  I am  almost 
unqualified  for  any  company,  diversion,  or  amusement.  The  death 
of  Mr.  Gay  and  the  doctor  have  been  terrible  wounds  near  my  heart. 
Their  living  would  have  been  a great  comfort  to  me,  although  I 
should  never  have  seen  them — like  a sum  of  money  in  the  bank, 
from  which  I should  receive  at  least  annual  interest,  as  I do  from 
you  and  have  done  from  my  Lord  Bolingbroke.  To  show  in  how 
much  ignorance  I live,  it  is  hardly  a fortnight  since  I heard  of  the 
death  of  my  Lady  Masham,  my  constant  friend  in  all  changes  of 
times.  God  forbid  that  I should  expect  you  to  make  a voyage  that 
would  in  the  least  affect  your  health  ; but  in  the  meantime  how  un- 
happy am  I that  my  best  friend  should  have  perhaps  the  only  kind 
of  disorder  for  which  a sea-voyage  is  not  in  some  degree  a remedy  ! 
The  old  Duke  of  Ormond  said  he  would  not  change  his  dead  son 
(Ossory)  for  the  best  living  son  in  Europe.  Neither  would  I 
change  you,  my  absent  friend,  for  the  best  present  friend  round  the 
globe. 

I have  lately  read  a book  imputed  to  Lord  Bolingbroke,  called 
“A  Dissertation  upon  Parties.”  I think  it  very  masterly 
written. 

May  God  reward  you  for  your  kind  prayers.  I believe  your 
prayers  will  do  me  more  good  than  those  of  all  the  prelates  in  both 
kingdoms,  or  any  prelates  in  Europe,  except  the  Bishop  of  Mar- 
seilles. And  God  preserve  you  for  contributing  more  to  mend  the 
world  than  the  whole  pack  of  (modern)  parsons  in  a lump.  I am 
ever  entirely  yours,  Jonathan-  Swift. 


49  Afterwards  Bishop  of  Cloyne. 


190 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


TO  DR.  SHERIDAN.60 

September  12,  1735. 

Here  is  a very  ingenious  observation  upon  the  days  of  the  week, 
and  in  rhyme,  worth  your  observation,  and  very  proper  for  the  in- 
formation of  boys  and  girls,  that  they  may  not  forget  to  reckon 
them : Sunday’s  a pun  day,  Monday’s  a dun  day,  Tuesday’s  a news 
day,  Wednesday’s  a friend’s  day,  Thursday’s  a cursed  day,  Friday’s 
a dry  day,  Saturday’s  the  latter  day.  I intend  something  of  equal 
use  upon  the  months:  as,  January,  women  vary.  I shall  likewise  in 
due  time  make  some  observation  upon  each  year  as  it  passes.  So 
for  the  present  year  : 

One  thousand  seven  hundred  and  thirty-five. 

When  only  the  d and  b ps  will  thrive. 

And  for  the  next : 

One  thousand  seven  hundred  and  thirty-six, 

When  the  d will  carry  the  b ps  to  Styx. 

Perge : 

One  thousand  seven  hundred  and  thirty-seven, 

When  the  Whigs  a, re  so  blind  they  mistake  hell  for  heav’n. 

I will  carry  these  predictions  no  further  than  to  year  2001,  when 
the  learned  think  the  world  will  be  at  an  end,  or  the  fine-all  cat-a- 
strow-fee. 

The  last  is  the  period,  two  thousand  and  one, 

When  m — and  b — to  hell  are  all  gone. 

When  that  time  comes,  pray  remember  the  discovery  came  from 
me. 

It  is  now  time  I should  begin  my  letter.  I hope  you  got  safe  to 
Cavan,  and  have  got  no  cold  in  those  two  terrible  days.  All  your 
friends  are  well,  and  I as  I used  to  be.  I received  yours.  My 
humble  service  to  your  lady  and  love  to  your  children.  I suppose 
you  have  all  the  news  sent  to  you.  I hear  of  no  marriages  going 
on.  One  Dean  Cross,  an  eminent  divine,  we  hear  is  to  be  Bishop 
of  Cork.  Stay  till  I ask  a servant  what  Patrick’s  bells  ring  for  so 
late  at  night.  You  fellow,  is  it  for  joy  or  sorrow  ? I believe  it 


80  The  grandfather  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  a great  wit,  and  friend  of  Swift.  He 
Was  a native  of  Ireland,  and  died  1738. 


Jonathan  Swift ? D,D. 


19 


some  of  our  royal  birthdays.  Oh!  they  tell  me  it  is  for  joy  a new 
master  is  chosen  for  the  corporation  of  butchers.  So  farewell. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


CERTIFICATE  TO  A DISCARDED  SERVANT. 

Deanery-House,  January  9,  1740. 

Whereas  the  bearer  served  me  the  space  of  one  year,  during 
which  time  he  was  an  idler  and  a drunkard ; I then  discharged  him 
as  such ; but  how  far  his  having  been  five  years  at  sea  may  have 
mended  his  manners,  I leave  to  the  penetration  of  those  who  may 
hereafter  choose  to  employ  him. 


-Jonathan  Swift. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“He  left  scarcely  any  style  of  writing  untouched,  and  touched  nothing  that 
he  did  not  adorn.” — Dr.  Johnson. 

ONE  of  the  dearest  and  brightest  names  in  English  literature 
is  Oliver  Goldsmith.  His  life  was,  indeed,  a strange  melo- 
drama, so  varied  with  laughter  and  tears,  so  checkered  with  fame 
and  misfortune,  so  resounding  with  songs,  pathetic  and  comic,  that 
were  he  an  unknown  hero  his  adventures  would  be  read  with  plea- 
sure by  every  person  of  sensibility. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  son  of  the  Kev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  a minister 
of  the  Established  Church,  was  born  at  the  little,  out-of-the-way 
village  of  Pallas,  or  Pallasmore,  county  of  Longford,  in  1728.  He 
was  the  fifth  of  nine  children,  and  at  his  birth  his  father  was — 

“ Passing  rich  on  forty  pounds  a year.” 

While  the  child  was  yet  in  his  second  year,  the  Eev.  Mr.  Goldsmith 
removed  to  the  delightful  village  of  Lissoy,  county  of  Westmeath, 
afterwards  made  immortal  by  Goldsmith  as — 

“ Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheer’d  the  laboring  swain.” 

Here  the  good  minister  held  a comfortable  living,  and  occupied  a 
fine  house.  Oliver,  in  due  time,  was  sent  to  the  village  school.  We 
are  told  that  he  was  “ an  exceedingly  dull  boy.”  However,  he  was 
a poet,  for  at  eight  years  of  age  he  showed  a turn  for  rhyming.  His 
first  master  was  Mr.  Thomas  Byrne,  a brave,  kind-hearted  old  sol- 
dier who  had  faced  cannon  under  Marlborough.  He  pitied  the  shy 
and  unattractive  Oliver,  and  let  the  lad  have  a good  deal  of  his  own 
way.  Mr.  Byrne  is,  no  doubt,  the  wonderful  pedagogue  pictured 
in  the  “Deserted  Village  ” as  the  person  who  astonished  the  rustics 
with  his  erudition  and  his  “ words  of  learned  length  and  thunder- 
ing sound.” 

"While  a mere  boy,  a severe  attack  of  small-pox  had  left  deep  pits 
in  poor  Oliver’s  face.  His  mischievous  companions  called  him  ugly  ; 
he  became  the  butt  of  coarse  fun  ; but  he  did  not  always  listen  in 

192 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


19  3 


silence  to  the  boorish  jibes.  “Why,  Noll,”  said  a relative,  staring 
at  the  boy’s  face,  “ you  are  become  a fright  ! When  do  you  mean 
to  get  handsome  again  ? ” “When  you  do,”  replied  Oliver  with  a 
quiet  grin. 

After  a fair  training  in  various  schools  at  Elphin,  Athlone,  and 
Edgeworthtown,  young  Goldsmith,  in  his  sixteenth  year,  was  sent 
to  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  for 
tutor,  Rev.  Mr.  Wilder,  a harsh  and  brutal  man.  Oliver’s  five 
years  of  university  life  in  the  capital  of  Ireland  were  unhappy 
years.  His  father  died,  and  but  for  the  generosity  of  a kind 
uncle 1 he  would  have  starved.  At  this  time  we  meet  his  first 
literary  performance.  He  wrote  street  ballads  for  five  shillings 
apiece,  and  at  night  he  would  quietly  slip  into  the  dimly-lighted 
streets  to  see  them  sold  and  to  hear  them  sung.  Here  also  we  first 
behold  that  boundless  benevolence  which  could  never  learn  discre- 
tion. Scarcely  was  his  hard-earned  and  much-needed  ballad  money 
in  his  hand  when  it  was  shared  with  the  first  beggar  he  met.  Poor 
Oliver’s  few  shillings  often  melted  away  in  the  heat  of  charity  be- 
fore he  could  reach  the  college  entrance  ! Hated  and  discouraged 
by  the  brutal  Wilder,  he  grew  idle,  and  took  a share  in  all  the  college 
scrapes.  He  even  had  a band  in  ducking  a bailiff  under  the  college 
pump.  On  one  occasion  he  made  thirty  shillings,  and,  of  course, 
he  could  not  avoid  celebrating  the  event  by  a dance  in  his  room. 
In  the  midst  of  the  festive  scene  the  evil  genius,  Wilder,  appeared, 
knocked  Goldsmith  down  with  a blow,  and  threw  the  dancers  neck 
and  heels  out  of  the  window.2  In  1749  he  took,  with  difficulty, 
the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  bade  a final  adieu  to  his  severe 
Alma  Mater. 

The  graduate  of  old  Trinity  now  directed  his  steps  to  his 
mother’s  cottage  at  Ballymahon,  near  Edgeworthtown,  where  she 
lived  in  reduced  circumstances.  Here  Oliver  spent  two  years  trying 
to  qualify  for  orders  in  the  Episcopal  Church.  He  could  tell  a 
story,  sing  a song,  or  play  a game  with  any  one.  Occasionally  he 
could  also  be  found  learning  French  from  some  Catholic  priest, 
fishing  on  the  banks  of  the  Inny,  playing  his  flute,  and  winning  a 
prize  at  the  fair  of  Ballymahon  for  throwing  the  sledge-hammer. 

We  have  not  space  to  give  a minute  account  of  Oliver’s  attempts  to 
be  a tutor,  a clergyman,  a lawyer,  and  a physician.  When  he  pre- 

1 Rev.  Mr.  Contarine. 

2 Irving,  “ Life  of  Goldsmith.’' 


194 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


sented  himself  for  orders,  the  Protestant  bishop  rejected  him.3  He 
turned  tutor,  but  in  a game  of  chance  quarrelled  with  one  of  his  pa- 
tron’s family,  left  his  place  with  $150  in  his  pocket,  and  wended  his 
way  to  Cork,  intending  to  go  to  America.  In  six  weeks  he  returned 
to  his  mother  without  a penny,  but  had  with  him  an  old  horse, 
which  he  humorously  named  “Fiddlestick.” 

Oliver  next  turned  his  thoughts  to  law.  His  good  Uncle  Con- 
'tarine  again  came  to  his  aid,  and,  with  $250  in  his  pocket,  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  B.A.,  set  out  for  London.  He  had  barely  reached 
Dublin  when,  in  a game  with  a sharper,  he  lost  all  his  money. 
Again  he  was  penniless.  He  was  now  advised  to  study  medicine, 
and  his  friends  once  more  came  to  his  assistance.  He  went  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  for  nearly  two  years  attended  the  medical  lectures  in 
the  university  of  that  city.  But  his  standing,  we  are  told,  was 
higher  in  social  circles  than  in  the  halls  of  science.  He  was  a good 
story-teller,  and  he  could  sing  a capital  Irish  song. 

From  Edinburgh  he  next  went  to  Leyden,  on  the  Continent,  to 
complete  his  medical  education.  After  a year  spent  at  this  place, 
he  got  into  some  difficulty,  and  hastily  left  the  university  without 
taking  any  degree.  He  now  began  the  grand  tour  of  Europe,  with 
“a  guinea  in  his  pocket,  a shirt  on  his  back,  and  a flute  in  his 
hand.”  This  journey  Goldsmith  has  immortalized  in  his  “Travel- 
ler.” On  foot  he  made  his  way  through  Belgium,  France,  Switzer- 
land, and  Italy  ; and  it  is  generally  believed  that  he  took  his  medi- 
cal degree  either  at  Louvain  or  Padua.  While  in  Italy  he  heard  of 
his  generous  LTncle  Contarine’s  death.  Oliver  was  obliged  to  foot 
it  towards  home,  and  was  happy  in  finding  lodging  and  a meal  in 
some  wayside  monastery. 

In  the  extremity  of  distress  he  reached  London  in  1756,  and  en- 
gaged awhile  in  teaching,  under  an  assumed  name.  He  next  turned 
to  practise  medicine,  but  his  patients  outnumbered  his  fees.  He 
finally  took  up  his  pen,  and  began  that  struggle  in  the  troubled 
waters  of  London  life  which  closed  only  when  the  straggler  lay 
coffined  in  Brick  Court. 

He  began  by  writing  essays  and  criticisms  for  the  reviews  and 
magazines.  In  1759,  Goldsmith’s  first  work,  “An  Enquiry  into  the 
Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,”  was  given  to  the  public. 
The  next  year  he  wrote  for  a popular  periodical  a series  of  letters 
assuming  to  come  from  a Chinese  philosopher  living  in  London,  and 

* Because,  it  is  said,  he  wore  a “ pair  of  scarlet  'breeches"  on  the  occasion. 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


*95 


giving  his  countrymen  an  account  of  what  he  was  seeing  there. 
The  “ Vicar  of  Wakefield”  was  finished  in  1764,  though  not  pub- 
lished for  nearly  two  years  after.  We  are  indebted  to  Dr.  Johnson 
for  the  story  of  how  the  manuscript  was  sold.  “I  received  one 
morning,”  says  the  doctor,  “ a message  from  poor  Goldsmith  that 
he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to 
me,  begged  that  I would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  I sent 
him  a guinea  and  promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I accordingly 
went  as  soon  as  I was  dressed,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had  ar- 
rested him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a violent  passion.  I per- 
ceived that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a bottle 
of  Madeira  and  a glass  before  him.  I put  the  cork  into  the  bottle, 
desired  him  to  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means 
whereby  he  might  be  extricated.  He  then  told  me  he  had  a novel 
ready  for  the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me.  I looked  into  it  and 
saw  its  merit,  told  the  landlady  I should  soon  return,  and  having 
gone  to  a bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I brought  Goldsmith 
the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  land- 
lady in  a high  tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill.”  4 

In  1764,  Goldsmith  published  “ The  Traveller.”  During  the 
next  ten  years  his  gifted  pen  gave  the  comedies  of  “ The  Good- 
Natured  Man”  and  “She  Stoops  to  Conquer,”  the  beautiful 
poem  of  “ The  Deserted  Village,”  in  which  the  good,  simple  peo- 
ple, the  sights  and  scenes  of  Lissoy,  in  Ireland,  are  immortalized, 
and  a number  of  historical  and  other  works,  for  some  of  which  he 
was  paid  large  sums  of  money.  The  last  flash  of  his  genius  was 
the  short  poem,  “Retaliation,”  written  in  reply  to  some  jibing 
epitaphs  which  were  composed  on  him  by  the  company  met  one 
day  at  dinner  in  the  St.  James’s  Coffee-House.  The  actor  Garrick’s 
couplet  ran  thus  : 

“ Here  lies  Poet  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  Noll, 

Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like  poor  Poll.” 

Garrick,  even  to-day,  suffers  for  his  unkindness,  as  can  be  seen 
by  reading  the  “ Retaliation.” 

Death,  alas  ! was  now  silently  approaching  Goldsmith,  and  the 
light  of  his  genius  was  soon  to  go  out.  Low  fever  set  in.  He 
took  powders  contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  physicians,  and  after 


4 Boswell’s  “ Life  of  Johnson.’ 


196 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland \ 


nine  days’  sickness  the  author  of  “ Sweet  Auburn  ” was  no  more. 
He  died  on  the  4th  of  April,  1774,  in  his  forty- sixth  year.  His 
last  moments  were  peculiarly  sad,  as  he  died  deeply  in  debt.  Dr. 
Johnson  tells  us  that  he  owed  fully  $10,000,  and  exclaims  : “Was 
ever  poet  so  trusted  before  ! ” On  hearing  of  Goldsmith’s  death, 
Edmund  Burke  burst  into  tears.  A monument  was  raised  to  him 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  good  old  Doctor  Johnson  wrote  the 
epitaph  in  Latin,  of  which  the  following  is  a translation  : 

“OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

POET,  NATURALIST,  AND  HISTORIAN, 

Who  left  scarcely  any  style  of  writing  untouched,  and  touched  nothing 
that  he  did  not  adorn  ; of  all  the  passions,  whether  smiles  or  tears 
were  to  be  moved,  a powerful  yet  gentle  master  ; in  genius  sub- 
lime, vivid,  versatile ; in  style  elevated,  clear,  elegant  . . . 

The  love  of  companions,  the  fidelity  of  friends,  and 
the  veneration  of  readers  have  by  this  monument 
honored  the  Memory.  He  was  born  in  Ireland, 
at  a place  called  Pallas,  in.  the  parish  of 
Forney,  and  county  of  Longford,  on 
the  29th  of  Nov.,  1728,  educated 
at  the  University  of  Dublin, 
and  died  at  London, 

4th  April,  1774.” 

As  an  author,  Goldsmith  holds  the  first  place  in  both  poetry  and 
prose.  His  original  productions  are  classics.  But  of  all  his  poetic 
gems,  the  finest,  most  polished,  and  most  precious  is  “ The  Deserted 
Village.”  For  tender  pathos,  simple,  charming,  lifelike  descrip- 
tions, exquisite  harmony,  and  matchless  beauty  of  expression,  it  is 
a poem,  perhaps,  unequalled  in  the  whole  range  of  literature.  It 
will  last  as  long  as  the  English  language. 

His  good-natured  wit  and  healthy  humor  shine  through  his  come- 
dies, essays,  “Vicar  of  Wakefield,”  and  especially  his  lines  on 
“Madame  Blaze.” 

To  Goldsmith  belongs  the  great  merit  of  purifying  the  novel,  of 
raising  it  above  the  sensual  and  the  obscene.  The  beautiful  story 
of  “The  Vicar  of  Wakefield”  stands  alone  in  English  letters, 
the  matchless  story  of  his  own  matchless  pen.  Its  perusal  gave 
the  great  German  poet,  Goethe,  his  first  taste  for  English  liter- 
ature. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


l97 


As  a gay  and  graceful  essayist,  the  author  of  “Sweet  Auburn” 
excelled  either  Steele  or  Addison. 

“In  person,”  writes  one  who  knew  Goldsmith  well,  “he  was 
short ; about  five  feet  five  or  six  inches  ; strong,  but  not  heavy  in 
make ; rather  fair  in  complexion,  with  brown  hair.  His  manners 
were  simple,  natural,  and,  perhaps,  on  t-he  whole,  we  may  say  pol- 
ished. He  was  alwrays  cheerful  and  animated,  often,  indeed,  bois- 
terous in  his  mirth.”  6 

Goldsmith’s  faults,  like  the  faults  of  other  men,  are  neither  to 
be  denied  nor  excused.  But  we  should  not  dwell  upon  them.  He 
was  a man  whose  character  should  be  determined  not  so  much  by 
his  defects  as  by  his  excellences.  Of  his  charity  instances  without 
number  could  be  given,  as  where  he  took  the  blankets  from  his  own 
bed  to  cover  a poor  woman  and  her  children. 

The  truth  of  Buffon’s  famous  saying,  “ The  style  is  the  man,”  was 
never  seen  in  a clearer  light  than  in  the  case  of  Goldsmith.  His 
bright  mind,  joyous  spirits,  and  kind  heart  shine  through  all  his  writ- 
ings. These  exhibit  his  better  self.  Johnson  is  said  to  have  remarked 
that  no  man  was  wiser  than  Goldsmith  when  he  had  a pen  in  his 
hand,  or  more  foolish  when  he  had  not.  We  should  remember  that 
it  was  Goldsmith’s  misfortune  rather  than  his  fault  that  his  whole 
life  was  a struggle  with  adversity  and  his  own  poorly-balanced  cha- 
racter. Yet  neither  poverty  nor  distress  could  ever  curdle  the  milk 
of  human  kindness  in  his  good  heart.  And  when  we  come  to  con- 
sider that  some  of  his  masterpieces  were  composed  in  a miserable 
garret,  with  indigence  staring  him  on  every  side,  we  are  really 
forced  to  bow  to  the  shining  splendor  of  his  genius. 


GOLDSMITH’S  POEMS. 

THE  DESERTED  TILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn  ! loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheer’d  the  laboring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer’s  ling’ring  blooms  delay’d  ; 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please. 


Judge  Day. 


198  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

How  often  have  I loiter’d  o’er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endear’d  each  scene  ! 

How  often  have  I paus’d  on  every  charm — 

The  shelter’d  cot,  the  cultivated  farm. 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 

The  decent  church  that  topp’d  the  neighb’ring  hill. 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade. 

For  talking  age  and  wliisp’ring  lovers  made  ! 

How  often  have  I bless’d  the  coming  day. 

When  toil,  remitting,  lent  its  turn  to  play. 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free. 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 

While  many  a pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey’d  ; 

And  many  a gambol  frolick’d  o’er  the  ground. 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round  i 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir’d, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir’d ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  titter’d  round  the  place  ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  ! sports  like  these. 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e’en  toil  to  please  ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed. 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled  l 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant’s  hand  is  seen. 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green. 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 

And  half  a tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,  chok’d  with  sedges,  works  its  Weedy  way  ; 

Along  thy  glades,  a solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 

Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


199 


4 


Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 

And  the  long  grass  o’ertops  the  mould’ring  wall, 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler’s  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hast’ning  ills  a prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay. 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade, 

A breath  can  make  them,  as  a breath  has  made ; 

But  a bold  peasantry,  their  country’s  pride, 

When  once  destroy’d,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A time  there  was,  ere  England’s  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man. 

For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store. 

Just  gave  what  life  requir’d,  but  gave  no  more  ; 

His  best  companions  innocence  and  health, 

And  his  best  riches  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter’d  ; trade’s  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 

Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter’d  hamlets  rose 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumb’rous  pomp  repose, 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  ask’d  but  little  room, 

Those  healthful  sports  that  grac’d  the  peaceful  scene. 
Liv’d  in  each  look,  and  brighten’d  all  the  green — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a kinder  shore, 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  ! parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 

Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant’s  power. 

Here,  as  I take  my  solitary  rounds 

Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin’d  grounds. 

And,  many  a year  elaps’d,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care. 

In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  giv’n  my  share — 

I still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  dowm 


200 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close. 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose ; 

I still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 

Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn’d  skill. 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 

And  tell  of  all  I felt  and  all  I saw ; 

And  as  a hare  whom  hounds  and  horse  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew, 

I still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 

Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

0 blest  retirement ! friend  to  life’s  decline, 

Ketreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 

How  blest  is  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these 
A youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 

Who  quits  a world  where  strong  temptations  try. 

And  since  ’tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 

Explore  the  mine  or  tempt  the  dang’rous  deep, 

Nor  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue’s  friend  ; 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv’d  decay, 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 

And,  all  his  prospects  bright’ning  to  the  last. 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound  when  oft,  at  ev’ning’s  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 

T»  ere,  as  I pass’d  with  careless  steps  and  slow. 

The  mingling  notes  came  soften’d  from  below  ; 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 

The  sober  herd  that  low’d  to  meet  their  young. 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o’er  the  pool. 

The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school. 

The  watch-dog’s  voice  that  bay’d  the  whisp’ring  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 

And  fill’d  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


201 


No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread  ; 

But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled — 

All  but  yon  widow’d,  solitary  thing 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring. 

She,  wretch’d  matron,  forc’d  in  age,  for  bread, 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread ; 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  ; 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 

The  sad 'historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smil’d, 
And  still  where  many  a garden-flower  grows  wild — 
There,  where  a few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 

The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 

A man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year  ; 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  chang’d,  nor  wish’d  to  change  his  place. 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashion’d  to  the  varying  hour  ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 

He  chid  their  wand’rings,  but  reliev’d  their  pain  ; 

The  long-remember’d  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast. 

The  ruin’d  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claim’d  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow’d  ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sate  by  his  fire  and  talk’d  the  night  away, 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shoulder’d  his  crutch,  and  show’d  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn’d  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 

And  e’en  his  failings  lean’d  to  virtue’s  side  ; 

But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watch’d  and  wept,  he  pray’d  and  felt  for  all ; 


202 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


And  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg’d  offspring  to  the  skies, 

He  tried  each  art,  reprov’d  each  dull  delay. 

Allur’d  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismay’d. 

The  rev’rend  champion  stood.  At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul, 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  falt’ring  accents  whisper’d  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorn’d  the  venerable  place  ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevail’d  with  double  sway, 

And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remain’d  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

E’en  children  follow’d  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck’d  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  express’d  ; 

Their  welfare  pleas’d  him,  and  their  cares  distress’d  ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven  ; 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  blossom’d  furze  unprofitable  gay, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill’d  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 

A man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 

I knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn’d  to  trace 
The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 

Full  well  they  laugh’d  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a joke  had  he  ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Convey’d  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown’d. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


The  village  all  declar’d  how  much  he  knew — 

’Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too  ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  e’en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own’d  his  skill, 

For  e’en  though  vanquish’d  he  could  argue  still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund’ring  sound 
Amaz’d  the  gazing  rustics  rang’d  around, 

And  still  they  gaz’d,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.  The  very  spot 
Where  many  a time  he  triumph’d  is  forgot, 

Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye. 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspir’d 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir’d, 

Where  village  statesmen  talk’d  with  looks  profound. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place  ; 

The  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor. 

The  varnish’d  clock  that  click’d  behind  the  door; 

The  chest  contriv’d  a double  debt  to  pay, 

A bed  by  night,  a chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 

The  pictures  plac’d  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose  ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill’d  the  day, 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay, 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 

Rang’d  o’er  the  chimney,  glisten’d  in  a row. 

Yain  transitory  splendors  ! could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tott’ring  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s  heart ; 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 

To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 

No  more  the  farmer’s  news,  the  barber’s  tale. 

No  more  the  woodman’s  ballad  shall  prevail; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 

Relax  his  pond’rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear  ; 


204 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 

Nor  the  coy  maid,  half-willing  to  be  prest, 

Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  ! let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train. 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 

Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway  ; 

Lightly  they  frolic  o’er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvy’d,  unmolested,  unconfined. 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array’d, 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain, 

And  e’en  while  fashion’s  brightest  arts  decoy, 

The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man’s  joy  increase,  the  poor’s  decay, 

’Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a splendid  and  a happy  land. 

Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 

And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 

Hoards  e’en  beyond  the  miser’s  wish  abound, 

And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 

Yet  count  our  gains.  This  wealth  is  but  a name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss.  This  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a space  that  many  poor  supply’d ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park’s  extended  bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  ; 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 

Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 

While  thus  the  land  adorn’d,  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


205 


As  some  fair  female,  unadorn’d  and  plain, 

Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 

Slights  every  borrow’d  charm  that  dress  supplies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  ; 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betray’d — 

In  nature’s  simplest  charms  at  first  array’d, 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise. 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise, 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band, 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms — a garden  and  a grave. 

Where,  then,  ah  ! where  shall  poverty  reside, 

To  ’scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 

If  to  some  common’s  fenceless  limits  stray’d 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 

And  e’en  the  bare-worn  common  is  deny’d. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there  ? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind ; 

To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature’s  woe. 

Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 

Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign. 
Here,  richly  deck’d,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  ere  annoy  ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? Ah  ! turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shiv’ring  female  lies. 


206  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn, 

Now  lost  to  all ; her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer’s  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinched  with  cold  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 

E’en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led. 

At  proud  men’s  doors  they  ask  a little  bread  ! 

Ah ! no.  To  distant  climes,  a dreary  scene. 

Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 

Through  torrid  tracks  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

Ear  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before. 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore — 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a downward  ray 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 

Those  pois’nous  fields,  with  rank  luxuriance  crown’d, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 

And  savage  men  more  murd’rous  still  than  they ; 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

Mingling  the  ravag’d  landscape  with  the  skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene — 

The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove 
That  only  shelter’d  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  heaven  ! what  sorrows  gloom’d  that  parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 

When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 

Hung  round  the  bowers  and  fondly  look’d  their  last, 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


207 


And  took  a long  farewell,  and  wish’d  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 

And,  shudd’ring  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return’d  and  wept,  and  still  return’d  to  weep. 

The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepar’d  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others’  woe  ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 

He  only  wish’d  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears. 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a lover’s  for  her  father’s  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  bless’d  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 

And  kiss’d  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

0 luxury  ! thou  curst  by  heaven’s  decree, 

How  ill-exchang’d  are  things  like  these  for  thee  ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy. 

Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 

Kingdoms  by  thee  to  sickly  greatness  grown 
Boast  of  a florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe, 

Till,  sapp’d  their  strength  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink  and  spread  a ruin  round 
E’en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done. 

E’en  now,  methinks,  as  pond’ring  here  I stand, 

I see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a melancholy  band. 

Pass  from  the  shore  and  darken  all  the  strand. 

Contented  toil  and  hospitable  care 

And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there, 

And  piety,  with  wishes  plac’d  above, 

And  steady  loyalty  and  faithful  love. 


2o8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


And  tliou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 

Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade, 

Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart  or  strike  for  honest  fame ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decry’d, 

My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride, 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 

That  found’st  me  poor  at  first  and  keep’st  me  so  ; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  noble  arts  excel, 

Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well. 
Farewell,  and  0 ! where’er  thy  voice  be  try’d, 

On  Torno’s  cliffs  or  Pambamarca’s  side. 

Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 

Redress  the  rigors  of  th’  inclement  clime  ; 

Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him  that  states  of  native  strength  possest. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 

That  trade’s  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor’d  mole  away, 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy. 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


THE  TRAVELLER  ; OR,  A PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 

Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt,  or  wandering  Po ; 

Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door  ; 
Or  where  Campania’s  plain  forsaken  lies 
A weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies ; 

Where’er  I roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 

My  heart  untravell’d  fondly  turns  to  thee — 

Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  -crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend  ; 


* 


Vr 

Oliver  Goldsmith.  209 

Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire  ; 

Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 

And  every  stranger  finds  a ready  chair  ; 

Blest  be  those  feasts,  with  simple  plenty  crown’d, 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale, 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 

And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share. 

My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care  ; 

Impell’d,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view , 

That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 

Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I follow,  flies  ; 

My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone. 

And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E’en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 

I sit  me  dowrn  a pensive  hour  to  spend, 

And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm’s  career. 

Look  downward  where  an  hundred  realms  appear, 

Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 

The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd’s  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  creation’s  charms  around  combine, 

Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 

Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 

That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain  ? 

Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 

These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 

And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendor  crown’d, 

Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round, 

Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale, 

Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale, 

Eor  me  your  tributary  stores  combine  ; 

Creation’s  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine. 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 

Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o’er, 


210 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 

Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still  ; 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleas’d  with  each,good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies; 
Yet  oft  a sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall. 

To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 

And  oft  I wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consigned, 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 
May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 

The  shudd’ring  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own, 

Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 

And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease; 

The  naked  negro  panting  at  the  line 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 

Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 

And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 

Such  is  the  patriot’s  boast,  where’er  we  roam, 

His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 

And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 

Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 

As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 

To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 

Nature,  a mother  kind  alike  to  all, 

Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labor’s  earnest  call ; 

With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra’s  cliffs  as  Arno’s  shelvy  side ; 

And  though  the  rocky-crested  summits  frown, 

These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of  down. 

From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent, 

Wealth,  commerce,  honor,  liberty,  content. 

Yet  these  each  other’s  power  so  strong  contest 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 

Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign  contentment  fails, 
And  honor  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


21 1 


Hence  every  state,  to  one  lov’d  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 

Each  to  the  fav’rite  happiness  attends, 

And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends, 

’Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain. 

This  fav’rite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes, 

And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies ; 
Here  for  a while,  my  proper  cares  resign’d — 

Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind, 

Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 

That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 

Far  to  the  right  where  Apennine  ascends, 

Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends. 

Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountains’  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride, 

While  oft  some  temple’s  mould’ring  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  nature’s  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 

The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 

Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  were  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear. 

Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year ; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die — 

These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 

Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter’s  toil ; 

While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows. 

And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 

In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 

Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign ; 
Though  poor,  luxurious ; though  submissive,  vain  ; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling  ; zealous,  yet  untrue. 
And  e’en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 

All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

For  wealth  was  theirs,  not  far  removed  the  date 
When  commerce  proudly  flourished  through  the  state 
At  her  command  the  palace  learnt  to  rise, 

Again  the  long-fall’ n column  sought  the  skies  ; 

The  canvas  glow’d  beyond  e’en  nature  warm, 

The  pregnant  quarry  teem’d  with  human  form. 

Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale. 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display’d  her  sail ; 

While  nought  remain’d  of  all  that  riches  gave 
But  towns  unmann’d  and  lords  without  a slave. 

And  late  the  nation  found  with  fruitless  skill 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride  ; 

From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall’n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 

Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array’d. 

The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade  ; 
Processions  form’d  for  piety  and  love, 

A mistress  or  a saint  in  every  grove. 

By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguil’d. 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child; 

Each  nobler  aim,  repressed  by  long  control, 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 

While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind. 

In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind ; 

As  in  those  domes  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway. 
Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay, 

There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead. 

The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed ; 

And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile. 
Exults  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a smile. 

My  soul  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a nobler  race  display, 

Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread. 
And  force  a churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread  ; 

No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword. 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 

But  winter,  lingering,  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain’s  breast, 

But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest 
Yet  still,  e’en  here,  content  can  spread  a charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 

Though  poor  the  peasant’s  hut,  his  feasts  tho’  small. 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 

Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed. 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loath  his  vegetable  meal ; 

But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil. 

Each  wish  contracting  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

Cheerful  at  morn  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breathes  the  keen  air  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 

With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 

Or  drives  his  vent’rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep  ; 

Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way. 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 

At  night  returning,  every  labor  sped, 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a shed  ; 

Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children’s  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze  ; 
While  his  lov’d  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard. 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board ; 

And  haply,  too,  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 

With  many  a tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 

Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 

And  e’en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 

Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms. 

And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms ; 
And  as  a child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest. 

Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother’s  breast. 

So  the  loud  torrent  and  the  whirlwind’s  roar 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign’d ; 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confin’d. 

Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due. 

If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few ; 


214 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 
Becomes  a source  of  pleasure  when  redrest; 

Whence  from  su<3h  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies. 
That  first  excites  desire  and  then  supplies; 

Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 

To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy; 

Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a mouldering  fire, 

Unquench’d  by  want,  unfann’d  by  strong  desire  ; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a year, 

In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire. 

Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow;. 

Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low  ; 

For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter’d,  unimprov’d  the  manners  run, 

And  love’s  and  friendship’s  finely-pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 

Some  sterner  virtues  o’er  the  mountain’s  breast 
May  sit,  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Thro’  life’s  more  cultur’d  walks,  and  charm  the  way. 
These,  far  dispers’d  on  timorous  pinions,  fly 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 

I turn,  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 

Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 

Pleas’d  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please 
How  often  have  I led  thy  sportive  choir, 

With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  ! 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 

And  freshen’d  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  falt’ring  still, 
But  mock’d  all  tune,  and  marr’d  the  dancer’s  skill, 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power. 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noon-tide  hour. 

Alike  all  ages.  Dames  of  ancient  days 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze; 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill’d  in  gestic  lore, 

Has  frisk’d  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a life  these  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away ; 

Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honor  forms  the  social  temper  here. 

Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 

Or  e’en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 

Here  passes  current;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 

It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land  ; 

From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 

And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise ; 

They  please,  are  pleas’d,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 

It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  ; 

For  praise  too  dearly  lov’d  or  warmly  sought 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought, 

And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 

Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another’s  breast. 

Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art. 

Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 

And  trims  her  robes  of  frize  with  copper  lace ; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 

To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a year ; 

The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom’d  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand. 

Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 

And  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 

Lift  the  tall  rampire’s  artificial  pride. 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow. 

The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile, 

Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile ; 


T he  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


216 


The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom’d  vale, 

The  willow- tufted  hank,  the  gliding  sail. 

The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 

Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign. 

And  industry  begets  a love  of  gain.( 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs. 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  display’d.  Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 

E’en  liberty  itself  is  barter’d  here. 

At  gold’s  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys ; 

A land  of  tyrants  and  a den  of  slaves. 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonorable  graves, 

And  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform. 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens  ! how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old  ! 
Bough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold ; 

War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow  ; 

How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 

Fir’d  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing. 

And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 

And  brighter  streams  than  fam’d  Hydaspes  glide 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray. 

There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 

Creation’s  mildest  charms  are  there  combin’d. 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master’s  mind  ! 

Stern  o’er  each  bosom  Beason  holds  her  state, 

With  daring  aims  irregularly  great; 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 

Intent  on  high  designs,  a thoughtful  band, 

By  forms  unfashion’d  fresh  from  Nature’s  hand. 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 

True  to  imagin’d  right,  above  control. 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


2 1 7 


While  e’en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictur’d  here, 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear; 

Too  blest,  indeed,  were  such  without  alloy, 

But  foster’d  e’en  by  Freedom  ills  annoy ; 

That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 

Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie ; 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 

All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown ; 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held. 

Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell’d. 
Ferments  arise,  imprison’d  factions  roar, 

Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore. 

Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.  As  nature’s  ties  decay. 

As  duty,  love,  and  honor  fail  to  sway. 

Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 

Still  gather  strength  and  force  unwilling  awe. 

Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  thee  alone, 

And  talent  sinks  and  merit  weeps  unknown, 

Till  time  may  come  when,  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 

Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil’d  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 

And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings  unhonor’d  die. 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  freedom’s  ills  I state, 

I mean  to  flatter  kings  or  court  the  great ; 

Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 

Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ; 

And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble’s  rage  and  tyrants’  angry  steel. 

Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt  or  favor's  fostering  sun, 

Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure, 

I only  would  repress  them  to  secure  ; 

For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 

That  those  that  think  must  govern  those  that  toil ; 


2 I 8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


And  all  that  freedom’s  highest  aims  can  reach 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion’d  loads  on  each. 

Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion^  grow, 

Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

Oh  ! then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires 
Who  thiuk  it  freedom  when  a part  aspires  ! 

Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 

Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms ; 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne. 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own, 
When  I behold  a factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free ; 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw. 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillag’d  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home  • 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation  start, 

Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart. 

Till,  half  a patriot,  half  a coward  grown, 

I fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power, 

And,  thus  polluting  honor  in  its  source, 

Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain’s  peopled  shore, 
Her  useful  sons  exchang’d  for  useless  ore  ? 

Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 

Like  flaring  tapers  bright’ning  as  they  waste  ; 
Seen  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 

Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train, 

And  over  fields  where  scattered  hamlets  rose 
In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 

Have  we  not  seen  at  pleasure’s  lordly  call 
The  smiling,  long-frequented  village  fall  ? 

Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay’d. 

The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid. 
Forc’d  from  their  homes  a melancholy  train, 

To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main, 
Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamp  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thund’ring  sound  ? 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


219 


E’en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays, 
Through  tangled  forests  and  through  dangerous  ways ; 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 

And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murd’rous  aim  ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 

And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 

The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe. 

To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go  ; 

Casts  a long  look  where  England’s  glories  shine, 

And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind  ; 

Why  have  I strayed  from  pleasure  and  repose, 

To  seek  a good  each  government  bestows  ? 

In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 

Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain 
How  small  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure. 

Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign’d. 

Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  ; 

With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy. 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 

The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 

Luke’s  iron  crown,  and  Damien’s  bed  of  steel, 

To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 

Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience  all  our  own. 


RETALIATION. 

[A  club  of  literary  men  used  to  meet  at  the  St.  James’s  Coffee-House,  in  St. 
James’s  Street,  and  soon  after  Goldsmith  was  elected  a member  he  was  made 
the  butt  of  their  witticisms,  both  spoken  and  written,  on  account  of  his  provincial 
dialect  and  the  oddity  of  his  appearance.  In  a good-humored  manner  he  subse- 
quently produced  and  read  the  following  poem.] 

Of  old,  when  Scarron 6 his  companions  invited. 

Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united ; 

If  our  landlord 7 supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 

Let  each  guest  bring  himself — and  he  brings  the  best  dish. 

6 A celebrated  French  writer  of  burlesque. 

1 The  land  ord  of  the  coffee-house. 


220 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


Our  dean 8 shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains ; 
Our  Burkes  9 shall  be  tongue,  with  the  garnish  of  brains  ; 
Our  Will 1 shall  be  wild-fowl  of  excellent  flavor  ; 

And  Dick  11  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savor ; 

Our  Cumberland’s  12  sweet-bread  its  place  shall  obtain, 
And  Douglas 13  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  ; 

Our  Garrick’s 14  a salad,  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree  ; 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I am 
That  Ridge  16  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds 16  is  lamb  ; 

That  Hickey’s 17  a capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule. 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a gooseberry  fool. 

At  a dinner  so  various,  at  such  a repast, 

Who’d  not  be  a glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 

Here,  waiter,  more  wine  ! let  me  sit  while  I’m  able. 

Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table  ; 

Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 

Let  me  ponder  and  tell  what  I think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  dean,18  reunited  to  earth, 

Who  mix’d  reason  with  pleasure  and  wisdom  with  mirth  ; 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt. 

At  least  in  six  weeks  I could  not  find  ’em  out ; 

Yet  some  have  declar’d,  and  it  can’t  be  denied  ’em, 

That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  ’em. 


Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,19  whose  genius  was  such 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 

Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow’d  his  mind, 

And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind, 


8 Dr  Barnard  Dean  of  Derry. 

9 The  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke. 

10  Mr.  William  Burke,  a relation  of  Edmund  Burke,  and  M.P.  for  Bedwin. 

11  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  a barrister,  and  younger  brother  of  Edmund  Burke,  and  Re- 
corder of  Bristol. 

12  The  dramatist. 

13  Dr.  Douglas,  a Scotchman,  canon  of  Windsor,  and  afterwards  Bishop  of  Carlisle. 

14  The  celebrated  actor. 

13  John  Ridge,  a barrister  in  the  Irish  courts. 

16  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

17  An  Irish  lawyer. 

18  Dean  Barnard. 

19  Edmund  Burke. 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  20  to  lend  him  a vote; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 

And  thought  of  convincing  while  they  thought  of  dining; 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit, 

Too  nice  for  a statesman,  too  proud  for  a wit  ; 

For  a patriot  too  cool ; for  a drudge  disobedient, 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 

In  short,  ’twas  his  fate,  unemploy’d  or  in  place,  sir, 

To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,21  whose  heart  was  a mint, 
While  the  owner  ne’er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in’t ; 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 

His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong ; 

Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 

The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home. 

Would  you  ask  for  his  merits,  alas  ! he  had  none ; 

What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,22  whose  fate  I must  sigh  at ; 
Alas ! that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet. 

What  spirits  were  his  ! what  wit  and  what  whim  ! 

Now  breaking  a jest,  and  now  breaking  a limb  ! 23 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball, 

Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 

In  short,  so  provoking  a devil  was  Dick 

That  we  wish’d  him  full  ten  times  a day  at  Old  Nick  ; 

But  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 

As  often  we  wish’d  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts. 

The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts ; 

A flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 

His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 

And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  ; 

Thomas  Townshend,  afterwards  Lord  Sydney. 

William  Burke. 

Richard  Burke. 

Richard  Burke  loyed  a jest,  and  he  unfortunately  broke  one  of  his  legs- 


2 2 2 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Like  a tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen’d  her  out, 

Or  rather  like  tragedy  given  a rout. 

His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings  that  folly  grows  proud  ; 

And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone. 

Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleas’d  with  their  own. 

Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught. 

Or,  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault  ? 

Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  man’s  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 

Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 

He  grew  lazy  at  last  and  drew  for  himself  ? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax. 

The  scourge  of  impostors  the  terror  of  quacks  ; 

Come  all  ye  quack  bards  and  ye  quacking  divines, 

Come  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines. 

When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne  ; 

I fear’d  for  your  safety,  I fear’d  for  my  own  ; 

But  now  he  is  gone  and  we  want  a detector, 

Our  Dodds24  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  25  shall  lecture; 
Macpherson 26  write  bombast  and  call  it  a style. 

Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I shall  compile  ; 

New  Lauders  and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over,27 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover ; 

Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a spark, 

And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman  and  cheat  in  the  dark. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 

An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 

As  an  actor,  contest  without  rival  to  shine  ; 

As  a wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  ; 

Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart. 

The  man  had  his  failings,  a dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill- judging  beauty  his  colors  he  spread, 

And  beplaster’d  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

24  The  notorious  Dr.  Dodd,  who  was  hanged  for  forgery. 

26  Dr.  Kenrick  used  to  deliver  lectures  at  the  Devil’s  Tavern,  under  the  title  of  “ The 
School  of  Shakspeare.” 

26  James  Macpherson  made  a prose  translation  of  Homer,  to  which  allusion  is  here 
made. 

27  Lauder  and  Bower  were  two  Scotch  authors  of  bad  moral  character. 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


223 


On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting  ; 

’Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  get  out  of  his  way. 

He  turn’d  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a day ; 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick. 

If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick  ; 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleas’d  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came, 

And  the  puff  of  a dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame  ; 

’Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 

Who  pepper’d  the  highest  was  surest  to  please  ; 

But  let  us  be  candid  and  speak  out  our  mind, 

If  dunces  applauded,  be  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,28  and  Woodfalls 29  so  grave, 

What  a commerce  was  yours  while  you  got  and  you  gave  ! 
How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  rais’d 
While  he  was  be-Roscius’d  and  you  were  bepraised  ! 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies ; 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill 
Shall  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will, 

Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 


Here  Hickey  reclines,  a most  blunt  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature. 

He  cherish’d  his  friend  and  he  relish’d  a bumper ; 

Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a thumper  ! 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a miser  ? 

I answer,  No,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser. 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 

His  very  worst  foe  can’t  accuse  him  of  that. 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ? Ah  ! no. 

Then  what  was  his  failing  ? come,*  tell  it  and  burn  ye. 
He  was,  could  he  help  it  ? a special  attorney. 


28  The  author  of  “ W6rds  to  the  Wise,”  “ Clementina,”  “School  for  Wives,”  etc. 

29  Printer  of  the  Morning  Chronicle,  died  1803. 


224 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  yon  my  mind. 

He  has  not  left  a wiser  or  better  behind  ; 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand, 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland. 

Still  born  to  improve  ns  in  every  part, 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart ; 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering 
When  they  judg’d  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing; 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff 
He  shifted  his  trumpet  and  only  took  snuff.30 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA. 

A Ballad . 

“Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale. 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

“ For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I tread. 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow, 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread. 

Seem  length’ning  as  I go.” 

“Forbear,  my  son,”  the  hermit  cries, 

“ To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

“Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still, 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant 
I give  it  with  good  will. 

“ Then  turn  to-night  and  freely  share 
Whate’er  my  cell  bestows, 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

so  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  deaf  and  used  an  ear-trumpet.  He  also  took  a great  quan- 
tity of  snuff. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


22s 


"No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I condemn  ; 

Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I learn  to  pity  them. 

" But  from  the  mountain’s  grassy  side 
A guiltless  feast  I bring  ; 

A scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supply’d. 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

"Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego; 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong ; 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.” 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends 
His  gentle  accents  fell ; 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a wilderness  obscure 
The  lonely  mansion  lay, 

A refuge  to  the  neighb’ring  poor 
And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  his  humble  thatch 
Requir’d  a master’s  care. 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a latch. 
Receiv’d  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  ev’ning  rest, 

The  hermit  trimm’d  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer’d  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  press’d  and  smil’d  ; 

And,  skill’d  in  legendary  lore, 

The  ling’ring  hours  beguil’d. 


226 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 
Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 

The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe  ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart. 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spy’d, 

With  answering  care  opprest : 

“ And  whence,  unhappy  youth,”  he  cry’d*, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

“ From  better  habitations  spurn’d, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 

Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn’d. 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

“ Alas  ! the  joys  that  fortune  brings 
Are  trifling,  and  decay  ; 

And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

“ And  what  is  friendship  but  a name, 

A charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ; 

A shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame. 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

“ And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound. 

The  modern  fair-one’s  jest, 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warn  the  turtle’s  nest. 

“For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush. 
And  spurn  the  sex,”  he  said ; 

But  while  he  spoke  a rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray’d. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


227 


Surpris’d  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view, 

Like  colors  o’er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
Alternate  spread  alarms ; 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  contest 
A maid  in  all  her  charms. 

ts  And,  ah  ! forgive  a stranger  rude, 

A wretch  forlorn,”  she  cried, 

“ Whose  feet  unhallow’d  thus  intrude 
Where  Heav’n  and  you  reside. 

“ But  let  a maid  thy  pity  share, 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

“My  father  liv’d  beside  the  Tyne. 

A wealthy  lord  was  he, 

And  all  his  wealth  was  mark’d  as  mine ; 
He  had  but  only  me. 

“To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms 
Unnumber’d  suitors  came, 

Who  prais’d  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt,  or  feign’d,  a flame. 

“Each  hour  a mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow’d, 
But  never  talk’d  of  love. 

“In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 


228 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


et  And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 
He  carol’d  lays  of  love, 

His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale 
And  music  to  the  grove. 

“ The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heav’n  refin’d. 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

“ The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

“ For  still  I try’d  each  fickle  art, 
Importunate  and  vain; 

And  while  his  passion  touch’d  my  heart, 

I triumph’d  in  his  pain. 

“Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride, 

And  sought  a solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

“ But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault. 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

“And  there  forlorn  despairing  hid, 

I’ll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 

’Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.” 

“Forbid  it  Heav’n  !”  the  hermit  cry’d, 
And  clasp’d  her  to  his  breast. 

The  wond’ring  fair  one  turn’d  to  chide — 
’Twas  Edwin’s  self  that  press’d. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


229 


“Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restor’d  to  love  and  thee. 

“ Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 
And  every  care  resign. 

And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life,  my  all  that’s  mine  ? 

“ No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We’ll  live  and  love  so  true ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
Shall  break  thy  Edwin’s  too.  ” 


AX  ELEGY  OK  THE  GLORY  OE  HER  SEX,  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 

Who  never  wanted  a good  word — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass’d  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind  ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 

Who  left  a pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please. 

With  manners  wondrous  winning  ; 

And  never  follow’d  wicked  ways — 

Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new. 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumber’d  in  her  pew — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 

The  king  himself  has  follow’d  her — 

When  she  has  walk’d  before. 


230 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers  on  cut  short  all ; 

The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead. 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore, 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 

That  had  she  liv’d  a twelvemonth  more. 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A MAD  DOG. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 

And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a man 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a godly  race  he  ran 
Whene’er  he  went  to  pray. 

A kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 

Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound. 
And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends. 
But  when  a pique  began, 

The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends. 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits 
To  bite  so  good  a man. 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


The  wound  it  seem’d  both  sore  and  sad 
To  every  Christian  eye  ; 

And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad. 
They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a wonder  came  to  light 
That  show’d  the  rogues  they  li 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bit 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


THE  CLOWN’S  REPLY. 

John  Trot  was  desired  by  two  witty  peers 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears. 

“ An’t  please  you,”  quoth  John,  “ I’m  not  given  to  letters 
Nor  dare  I pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters ; 
Howe’er,  from  this  time  I shall  ne’er  see  your  graces, 

As  I hope  to  be  sav’d!  without  thinking  on  asses.” 


EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PURDON. 

Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 
Who  long  was  a bookseller’s  hack ; 

He  led  such  a damnable  life  in  this  world, 

I don’t  think  he’ll  wish  to  come  back. 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL. 

This  tomb,  inscrib’d  to  gentle  Parnell’s  name, 

May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame. 

What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 

That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure’s  flowery  way  ! 
Celestial  themes  confess’d  his  tuneful  aid, 

And  Heav’n,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid. 
Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow 
The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below  ; 

More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise, 

While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 


232  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland \ 

GOLDSMITH’S  ESSAYS. 

THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 

As  I am  one  of  that  sauntering  tribe  of  mortals  who  spend  the 
greatest  part  of  their  time  in  taverns,  coffee-houses,  and  other 
places  of  public  resort,  I have  thereby  an  opportunity  of  observing 
an  infinite  variety  of  characters,  which,  to  a person  of  a contempla- 
tive turn,  is  a much  higher  entertainment  than  a view  of  all  the 
curiosities  of  art  or  nature.  In  one  of  these  my  late  rambles  I acci- 
dentally fell  into  the  company  of  half  a dozen  gentlemen  who  were 
engaged  in  a warm  dispute  about  some  political  affair,  the  decision 
of  which,  as  they  were  equally  divided  in  their  sentiments,  they 
thought  proper  to  refer  to  me,  which  naturally  drew  me  in  for  a 
share  of  the  conversation. 

Amongst  a multiplicity  of  other  topics,  we  took  occasion  to  talk 
of  the  different  characters  of  the  several  nations  of  Europe,  when 
one  of  the  gentlemen,  cocking  his  hat  and  assuming  such  an  air  of 
importance  as  if  he  had  possessed  all  the  merit  of  the  English 
nation  in  his  own  person,  declared  that  the  Dutch  were  a parcel  of 
avaricious  wretches,  the  French  a set  of  flattering  sycophants,  that 
the  Germans  were  drunken  sots  and  beastly  gluttons,  and  the  Span- 
iards proud,  haughty,  and  surly  tyrants ; but  that  in  bravery, 
generosity,  clemency,  and  in  every  other  virtue  the  English  excelled 
all  the  rest  of  the  world. 

This  very  learned  and  judicious  remarlc  was  received  with  a 
general  smile  of  approbation  by  all  the  company — all,  I mean,  but 
your  humble  servant,  who,  endeavoring  to  keep  my  gravity  as  well 
as  I could,  and,  reclining  my  head  upon  my  arm,  continued  for 
some  time  in  a posture  of  affected  thoughtfulness,  as  if  I had  been 
musing  on  something  else,  and  did  not  seem  to  attend  to  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation,  hoping  by  these  means  to  avoid  the  disagree- 
able necessity  of  explaining  myself,  and  thereby  depriving  the  gen- 
tleman of  his  imaginary  happiness. 

But  my  pseudo  patriot  had  no  mind  to  let  me  escape  so  easily. 
Not  satisfied  that  his  opinion  should  pass  without  contradiction,  he 
was  determined  to  have  it  ratified  by  the  suffrage  of  every  one  in  the 
company,  for  which  purpose,  addressing  himself  to  me  with  an  air 
of  inexpressible  confidence,  he  asked  me  if  I was  not  of  the  same 
way  of  thinking.  As  I am  never  forward  in  giving  my  opinion, 
especially  when  I have  reason  to  believe  that  it  will  not  be  agree- 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


233 


able  ; so,  wlien  I am  obliged  to  give  it,  I always  hold  it  for  a maxim 
to  speak  my  real  sentiments.  I therefore  told  him  that,  for  my 
own  part,  I should  not  have  ventured  to  talk  in  such  a peremptory 
strain  unless  I had  made  the  tour  of  Europe  and  examined  the 
manners  of  these  several  nations  with  great  care  and  accuracy ; 
that  perhaps  a more  impartial  judge  would  not  scruple  to  affirm 
that  the  Dutch  were  more  frugal  and  industrious,  the  French  more 
temperate  and  polite,  the  Germans  more  hardy  and  patient  of  labor 
and  fatigue,  and  the  Spaniards  more  staid  and  sedate,  than  the 
English,  who,  though  undoubtedly  brave  and  generous,  were  at  the 
same  time  rash,  headstrong,  and  impetuous ; too  apt  to  be  elated 
with  prosperity  and  to  despond  in  adversity. 

I could  easily  perceive  that  all  the  company  began  to  regard  me 
with  a jealous  eye  before  I had  finished  my  answer,  which  I had  no 
sooner  done  than  the  patriotic  gentleman  observed,  with  a con- 
temptuous sneer,  that  he  was  greatly  surprised  how  some  people 
could  have  the  conscience  to  live  in  a country  which  they  did  not 
love,  and  to  enjoy  the  protection  of  a government  to  which  in  their 
hearts  they  were  inveterate  enemies.  Finding  that  by  this  modest 
declaration  of  my  sentiments  I had  forfeited  the  good  opinion  of 
my  companions,  and  given  them  occasion  to  call  my  political  princi- 
ple in  question,  and  well  knowing  that  it  was  in  vain  to  argue  with 
men  who  were  so  very  full  of  themselves,  I threw  down  my  reckon- 
ing and  retired  to  my  own  lodgings,  reflecting  on  the  absurd  and 
ridiculous  nature  of  national  prejudice  and  prepossession. 

Among  all  the  famous  sayings  of  antiquity  there  is  none  that 
does  greater  honor  to  the  author,  or  affords  greater  pleasure  to  the 
reader  (at  least  if  he  be  a person  of  generous  and  benevolent  heart), 
than  that  of  the  philosopher  who,  being  asked  what  ‘ 4 countryman 
he  was/’  replied  that  he  was  “ a citizen  of  the  world.”  How  few  are 
there  to  be  found  in  modern  times  who  can  say  the  same,  or  whose 
conduct  is  consistent  with  such  a profession  ! We  are  now  become 
so  much  Englishmen,  Frenchmen,  Dutchmen,  Spaniards,  or  Ger- 
mans that  we  are  no  longer  citizens  of  the  world ; so  much 
the  natives  of  one  particular  spot,  or  members  of  one  petty  society, 
that  we  no  longer  consider  ourselves  as  the  general  inhabitants  of  the 
globe,  or  members  of  that  grand  society  which  comprehends  the 
whole  human  kind. 

Did  these  prejudices  prevail  only  among  the  meanest  and  lowest 
of  the  people,  perhaps  they  might  be  excused,  as  they  have  few,  if 


234 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


any,  opportunities  of  correcting  them  by  reading,  travelling,  or  con- 
versing with  foreigners ; but  the  misfortune  is  that  they  infect  the 
minds  and  influence  the  conduct  even  of  our  gentlemen — of  those, 
I mean,  who  have  every  title  to  this  appellation  but  an  exemption 
from  prejudice,  which,  however,  in  my  opinion,  ought  to  be  regard- 
ed as  the  characteristical  mark  of  a gentleman  ; for  let  a man’s  birth 
be  ever  so  high,  his  station  ever  so  exalted,  or  his  fortune  ever  so 
large,  yet  if  he  is  not  free  from  national  and  other  prejudices,  I 
should  make  bold  to  tell  him  that  he  had  a low  and  vulgar  mind, 
and  had  no  just  claim  to  the  character  of  a gentleman.  And  in 
fact  you  will  always  find  that  those  are  most  apt  to  boast  of  na- 
tional merit  who  have  little  or  no  merit  of  their  own  to  depend  on, 
than  which,  to  be  sure,  nothing  is  more  natural ; the  slender  vine 
twists  around  the  sturdy  oak  for  no  other  reason  in  the  world  but 
because  it  has  not  strength  sufficient  to  support  itself. 

Should  it  be  alleged  in  defence  of  national  prejudice  that  it  is 
the  natural  and  necessary  growth  of  love  to  our  country,  and  that 
therefore  the  former  cannot  be  destroyed  without  hurting  the  latter, 
I answer  that  this  is  a gross  fallacy  and  delusion.  That  it  is  the 
growth  of  love  to  our  country  I will  allow,  but  that  it  is  the  natu- 
ral and  necessary  growth  of  it  I absolutely  deny.  Superstition  and 
enthusiasm,  too,  are  the  growth  of  religion ; but  who  ever  took  it 
into  his  head  to  affirm  that  they  are  the  necessary  growth  of  this 
noble  principle  ? They  are,  if  you  will,  the  bastard  sprouts  of  this 
heavenly  plant,  but  not  its  natural  and  genuine  branches,  and  may 
safely  enough  be  lopt  off  without  doing  any  harm  to  the  parent 
stock — nay,  perhaps,  till  onee  they  are  lopt  off  this  goodly  tree  can 
never  flourish  in  perfect  health  and  vigor. 

Is  it  not  very  possible  that  I may  love  my  own  country  without 
hating  the  natives  of  other  countries  ? that  I may  exert  the  most 
heroic  bravery,  the  most  undaunted  resolution,  in  defending  its 
laws  and  liberty  without  despising  all  the  rest  of  the  world  as  cow- 
ards and  poltroons  ? Most  certainly  it  is  ; and  if  it  were  not — but 
what  need  I suppose  what  is  absolutely  impossible  ? — but  if  it  were 
not,  I must  own,  I should  prefer  the  title  of  the  ancient  philoso- 
pher— viz.,  a citizen  of  the  world — to  that  of  an  Englishman,  a 
Frenchman,  a European,  or  to  any  other  appellation  whatever. 


Oliver  Goldsmith, . 


235 


CAROLAN,  THE  IRISH  BARD. 

There  can  be,  perhaps,  no  greater  entertainment  than  to  compare 
the  rude  Celtic  simplicity  with  modern  refinement.  Books,  how- 
ever, seem  incapable  of  furnishing  the  parallel ; and  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  ancient  manners  of  our  own  ancestors,  we  should  endeavor 
to  look  for  their  remains  in  those  countries  which,  being  in  some 
measure  retired  from  an  intercourse  with  other  nations,  are  still 
untinctured  with  foreign  refinement,  language,  or  breeding. 

The  Irish  will  satisfy  curiosity  in  this  respect  preferably  to  all 
other  nations  I have  seen.  They,  in  several  parts  of  that  country, 
still  adhere  to  their  ancient  language,  dress,  furniture,  and  supersti- 
tions ; several  customs  exist  among  them  that  still  speak  their  ori- 
ginal ; and  in  some  respects  Caesar’s  description  of  the  ancient  Bri- 
tons is  applicable  to  them. 

Their  bards,  in  ‘particular,  are  still  held  in  great  veneration  among 
them.  Those  traditional  heralds  are  invited  to  every  funeral,  in  order 
to  fill  up  the  intervals  of  the  howl  with  their  songs  and  harps.  In 
these  they  rehearse  the  actions  of  the  ancestors  of  the  deceased,  be- 
wail the  bondage  of  their  country  under  the  English  Government, 
and  generally  conclude  with  advising  the  young  men  and  maidens 
to  make  the  best  use  of  their  time,  for  they  will  soon,  for  all  their 
present  bloom,  be  stretched  under  the  table,  like  the  dead  body  be- 
fore them. 

Of  all  the  bards  this  country  ever  produced,  the  last  and  the 
greatest  was  Carolan  the  Blind.  He  was  at  once  a poet,  a musician, 
a composer,  and  sung  his  own  verses  to  his  harp.  The  original  na- 
tives never  mention  his  name  without  rapture ; both  his  poetry  and 
music  they  have  by  heart ; and  even  some  of  the  English  themselves 
who  have  been  transplanted  there  find  his  music  extremely  pleas- 
ing. A song  beginning,  “ O’Rourke’s  noble  fare  will  ne’er  be  for- 
got,” translated  by  Dean  Swift,  is  of  his  composition,  which,  though 
perhaps  by  this  means  the  best  known  of  his  pieces,  is  yet  by  no 
means  the  most  deserving.  His  songs  in  general  may  be  compared 
to  those  of  Pindar,  as  they  have  frequently  the  same  flights  of  imagi- 
nation, and  are  composed  (I  don’t  say  written,  for  he  could  not 
write,)  merely  to  flatter  some  man  of  fortune  upon  some  excellence 
of  the  same  kind.  In  these  one  man  is  praised  for  the  excellence 
Of  his  stable,  as  in  Pindar,  another  for  his  hospitality,  a third  for 
the  beauty  of  his  wife  and  children,  and  a fourth  for  the  antiquity 


236  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

of  his  family.  Whenever  any  of  the  original  natives  of  distinction 
were  assembled  at  feasting  or  revelling,  Carolan  was  generally  there, 
where  he  was  always  ready  with  his  harp  to  celebrate  their  praises. 
He  seemed  by  nature  formed  for  his  profession  ; for  as  he  was  born 
blind,  so  also  was  he  possessed  of  a most  astonishing  memory,  and 
a facetious  turn  of  thinking,  which  gave  his  entertainers  infinite 
satisfaction.  Being  once  at  the  house  of  an  Irish  nobleman,  where 
there  was  a musician  present  who  was  eminent  in  the  profession, 
Carolan  immediately  challenged  him  to  a trial  of  skill.  To  carry 
his  jest  forward,  his  lordship  persuaded  the  musician  to  accept  the 
challenge,  and  he  accordingly  played  over  on  his  fiddle  the  whole 
piece  after  him,  without  missing  a note,  though  he  had  never  heard 
it  before,  which  produced  some  surprise  ; but  their  astonishment 
increased  when  he  assured  them  he  could  make  a concerto  in  the 
same  taste  himself,  which  he  instantly  composed,  and  that  with 
such  spirit  and  elegance  that  we  may  compare  it  (for  we  have  it  still) 
with  the  finest  compositions  of  Italy. 

His  death  was  not  more  remarkable  than  his  life.  Homer  was 
never  more  fond  of  a glass  than  he ; he  would  drink  whole  pints  of 
usquebaugh,  and,  as  he  used  to  think,  without  any  ill  consequence. 
His  intemperance,  however,  in  this  respect,  at  length  brought  on  an 
incurable  disorder,  and  when  just  at  the  point  of  death,  he  called  for 
a cup  of  his  beloved  liquor.  Those  who  were  standing  round  him, 
surprised  at  the  demand,  endeavored  to  persuade  him  to  the  con- 
trary ; but  he  persisted,  and  when  the  bowl  was  brought  him,  at- 
tempted to  drink,  but  could  not  • wherefore,  giving  away  the  bowl, 
he  observed  with  a smile  that  it  would  be  hard  if  two  such  friends 
as  he  and  the  cup  should  part,  at  least  without  kissing,  and  then 
expired. 


THE  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD,  IN  WHICH  A 
KINDRED  LIKENESS  PREVAILS,  AS  WELL  OF  MINDS  AS  OF  PER- 
SONS.31 

I was  ever  of  opinion  that  the  honest  man  who  married  and 
brought  up  a large  family  did  more  service  than  he  who  continued 
single  and  only  talked  of  population.  From  this  motive  I had 
scarce  taken  orders  a year  before  I began  to  think  seriously  of 


31  This  is  the  first  chapter  of  the  “Vicar  of  Wakefield. 


' 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


237 


matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife,  as  she  did  her  wedding-gown,  not 
for  a fine  glossy  surface,  but  such  qualities  as  would  wear  well. 
To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a good-natured,  notable  woman  ; and  as 
for  breeding,  there  were  few  country  ladies  who  could  show  more. 
She  could  read  any  English  book  without  much  spelling  ; but  for 
pickling,  preserving,  and  cookery  none  could  excel  her.  She 
prided  herself  also  upon  being  an  excellent  contriver  in  house- 
keeping, though  I could  never  find  that  we  grew  richer  with  all 
her  contrivances. 

However,  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our  fondness  in- 
creased as  we  grew  old.  There  was,  in  fact,  nothing  that  could 
make  us  angry  with  the  world  or  each  other.  We  had  an  elegant 
house,  situated  in  a fine  country,  and  a good  neighborhood.  The 
year  was  spent  in  a moral  or  rural  amusement,  in  visiting  our  rich 
neighbors  and  relieving  such  as  were  poor.  We  had  no  revolutions 
to  fear,  nor  fatigues  to  undergo ; all  our  adventures  were  by  the 
fireside,  and  all  our  migrations  from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the  traveller  or  stranger 
visit  us  to  taste  our  gooseberry  wine,  for  which  we  had  great  re- 
putation ; and  I profess,  with  the  veracity  of  an  historian,  that  I 
never  knew  one  of  them  find  fault  with  it.  Our  cousins,  too,  even 
to  the  fortieth  remove,  all  remembered  their  affinity,  without  any 
help  from  the  herald’s  office,  and  came  very  frequently  to  see  us. 
Some  of  them  did  us  no  great  honor  by  these  claims  of  kindred, 
as  we  had  the  blind,  the  maimed,  and  the  halt  amongst  the  number. 
However,  my  wife  always  insisted  that  as  they  were  the  same  flesh 
and  blood,  they  should  sit  with  us  at  the  same  table.  So  that  if  we 
had  not  very  rich  we  generally  had  very  happy  friends  about  us  ; 
for  this  remark  will  hold  good  through  life,  that  the  poorer  the 
guest  the  better  pleased  he  ever  is  with  being  treated  ; and  as  some 
men  gaee  with  admiration  at  the  colors  of  a tulip  or  the  wing  of  a 
butterfly,  so  I was  by  nature  an  admirer  of  happy  human  faces. 
However,  when  any  of  our  relations  was  found  to  be  a person  of  a 
very  bad  character,  a troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  desired  to  get 
rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my  house  I ever  took  care  to  lend  him  a 
riding-coat,  or  a pair  of  boots,  or  sometimes  a horse  of  small  value, 
and  I always  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  he  never  came  back  to 
return  them.  By  this  the  house  was  cleared  of  such  as  we  did  not 
like  ; but  never  was  the  family  of  Wakefield  known  to  turn  the 
traveller  or  the  poor  dependent  out  of  doors. 


238  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a state  of  much  happiness,  not  but 
that  we  sometimes  had  those  little  rubs  which  Providence  sends  to 
enhance  the  value  of  its  favors.  My  orchard  was  often  robbed  by 
school-boys,  and  my  wife’s  custards  plundered  by  the  cats  or  the 
children.  The  squire  would  sometimes  fall  asleep  in  the  most 
pathetic  parts  of  my  sermon,  or  his  lady  return  my  wife’s  civilities 
at  church  with  a mutilated  courtesy.  But  we  soon  got  over  the 
uneasiness  caused  by  such  accidents,  and  usually  in  three  or  four 
days  began  to  wonder  how  they  vexed  us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as  they  were  educated 
without  softness  so  they  were  at  once  well  formed  and  healthy,  my 
sons  hardy  and  active,  my  daughters  beautiful  and  blooming. 
When  I stood  in  the  midst  of  the  little  circle,  which  promised  to 
be  the  supports  of  my  declining  age,  I could  not  avoid  repeating 
the  famous  story  of  Count  Abensburg,  who,  in  Henry  II.’s  progress 
through  Germany,  while  other  courtiers  came  with  their  treasures, 
brought  his  thirty-two  children  and  presented  them  to  his  sovereign 
as  the  most  valuable  offering  he  had  to  bestow.  In  this  manner, 
though  I had  but  six,  I considered  them  as  a very  valuable  present 
made  to  my  country,  and  consequently  looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor. 
Our  eldest  son  was  named  George,  after  his  uncle,  who  left  us  ten 
thousand  pounds.  Our  second  child,  a girl,  I intended  to  call  after 
her  Aunt  Grissel ; but  my  wife,  who  during  her  pregnancy  had  been 
reading  romances,  insisted  upon  her  being  called  Olivia.  In  less 
than  another  year  Ave  had  another  daughter,  and  now  I was  de- 
termined that  Grissel  should  be  her  name ; but  a rich  relation  tak- 
ing a fancy  to  stand  godmother,  the  girl  was,  by  her  directions, 
called  Sophia ; so  that  we  had  two  romantic  names  in  the  family, 
but  I solemnly  protest  I had  no  hand  it.  Moses  was  our  next,  and 
after  an  interval  of  twelve  years  Ave  had  two  sons  more. 

It  Avould  be  fruitless  to  deny  exultation  when  I saw  my  little  ones 
about  me  ; but  the  vanity  and  the  satisfaction,  of  my  wife  were  even 
greater  than  mine.  When  our  visitors  would  say,  “Well,  upon  my 
word,  Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have  the  finest  children  in  the  whole 
country.”  “Ay,  neighbor,”  she  would  answer,  they  are  as  Heaven 
made  them,  handsome  enough,  if  they  be  good  enough  ; for  hand- 
some is  that  handsome  does.”  And  then  she  would  bid  the  girls 
hold  up  their  heads,  who,  to  conceal  nothing,  were  certainly  very 
handsome.  Mere  outside  is  so  very  trifling  a circumstance  with  me 
that  I should  scarcely  have  remembered  to  mention  it  had  it  not 


01 iver  Goldsm  ith. 


239 


been  a general  topic  of  conversation  in  the  country.  Olivia,  now 
about  eighteen,  had  that  luxuriancy  of  beauty  with  which  painters 
generally  draw  Hebe — open,  sprightly,  and  commanding.  Sophia’s 
features  were  not  so  striking  at  first ; but  often  did  more  certain 
execution  ; for  they  were  soft,  modest,  and  alluring.  The  one  van- 
quished by  a single  blow,  the  other  by  efforts  successfully  repeated. 

The  temper  of  a woman  is  generally  formed  from  the  turn  of  her 
features — at  least  it  was  so  with  my  daughters.  Olivia  wished  for 
many  lovers  ; Sophia,  to  secure  one.  Olivia  was  often  affected  from 
too  great  a desire  to  please ; Sophia  even  repressed  excellence  from 
her  fears  to  offend.  The  one  entertained  me  with  her  vivacity  when 
I was  gay,  the  other  with  her  sense  when  I was  serious.  But  these 
qualities  were  never  carried  to  excess  in  either,  and  I have  often 
seen  them  exchange  characters  for  a whole  day  together.  A suit  of 
mourning  has  transformed  my  coquette  into  a prude,  and  a new  set 
of  ribbons  has  given  her  younger  sister  more  than  natural  vivacity. 
My  eldest  son,  George,  was  bred  at  Oxford,  as  I intended  him  for 
one  of  the  learned  professions.  My  second  boy,  Moses,  whom  I de- 
signed for  business,  received  a sort  of  miscellaneous  education  at 
home.  But  it  is  needless  to  attempt  describing  the  particular 
characters  of  young  people  that  had  seen  but  very  little  of  the 
world.  In  short,  a family  likeness  prevailed  through  all ; and, 
properly  speaking,  they  had  but  one  character — that  of  being  all 
equally  generous,  credulous,  simple,  and  inoffensive. 


LETTER  FROM  LIEN'  CHI  ALTANGI  TO  * * *,  MERCHANT  IN'  AMSTER- 
DAM— LONDON"  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.33 

Friend  of  my  Heart  : May  the  wings  of  peace  rest  upon  thy 
dwelling,  and  the  shield  of  conscience  preserve  thee  from  vice  and 
misery ! For  all  thy  favors  accept  my  gratitude  and  esteem,  the 
only  tributes  a poor  philosophic  wanderer  can  return.  Sure,  fortune 
is  resolved  to  make  me  unhappy,  when  she  gives  others  a power  of 
testifying  their  friendship  by  actions,  and  leaves  me  only  words  to 
express  the  sincerity  of  mine. 

I am  perfectly  sensible  of  the  delicacy  with  which  you  endeavor 
to  lessen  your  own  merit  and  my  obligations.  By  calling  your  late 


32  In  these  letters— or  rather  essays  in  the  form  of  letters— Goldsmith  assumed  the 
character  of  a Chinese  philosopher. 


240 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


instances  of  friendship  only  a return  for  former  favors,  you  would 
induce  me  to  impute  to  your  justice  what  I owe  to  your  generosity. 

The  services  I did  you  at  Canton,  justice,  humanity,  and  my  office 
hade  me  perform  ; those  you  have  done  me  since  my  arrival  at 
Amsterdam  no  laws  obliged  you  to,  no  justice  required ; even  half 
your  favors  would  have  been  greater  than  my  most  sanguine  expec- 
tations. 

The  sum  of  money,  therefore,  which  you  privately  conveyed  into 
my  baggage  when  I was  leaving  Holland,  and  which  I was  ignorant 
of  till  my  arrival  in  London,  I must  beg  leave  to  return.  You  have 
been  bred  a merchant,  and  I a scholar ; you  consequently  love 
money  better  than  I.  You  can  find  pleasure  in  superfluity;  I am 
perfectly  content  with  what  is  sufficient.  Take,  therefore,  what  is 
yours ; it  may  give  you  some  pleasure,  even  though  you  have  no 
occasion  to  use  it ; my  happiness  it  cannot  improve,  for  I have 
already  all  that  I want. 

My  passage  by  sea  from  Kotterdam  to  England  was  more  painful 
to  me  than  all  the  journeys  I ever  made  on  land.  I have  traversed 
the  immeasurable  wilds  of  Mogul  Tartary ; felt  all  the  rigors  of 
Siberian  skies ; I have  had  my  repose  a hundred  times  disturbed  by 
invading  savages,  and  have  seen,  without  shrinking,  the  desert  sands 
rise  like  a troubled  ocean  all  around  me.  Against  these  calamities 
I was  armed  with  a resolution ; but  in  my  passage  to  England, 
though  nothing  occurred  that  gave  the  mariners  any  uneasiness,  to 
one  who  was  never  at  sea  before  all  was  a subject  of  astonishment 
and  terror.  To  find  the  land  disappear,  to  see  our  ship  mount  the 
waves  swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  Tartar  bow,  to  hear  the  wind 
howling  through  the  cordage,  to  feel  a sickness  which  depresses  even 
the  spirits  of  the  brave — these  were  unexpected  distresses,  and  con- 
sequently assaulted  me  unprepared  to  receive  them. 

You  men  of  Europe  think  nothing  of  a voyage  by  sea.  With  us 
of  China  a man  who  has  been  from  sight  of  land  is  regarded  upon 
his  return  with  admiration.  I have  known  some  provinces  where 
there  is  not  even  a name  for  the  ocean.  What  a strange  people, 
therefore,  am  I got  amongst,  who  have  founded  an  empire  on  this 
unstable  element,  who  build  cities  upon  billows  that  rise  higher  than 
the  mountains  of  Tiptartala,  and  make  the  deep  more  formidable 
than  the  wildest  tempest. 

Such  accounts  as  these,  I must  confess,  were  my  first  motives  for 
seeing  England.  These  induced  me  to  undertake  a journey  of  seven 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


241 


hundred  painful  days,  in  order  to  examine  its  opulence,  buildings, 
cciences,  arts,  and  manufactures  on  the  spot.  Judge,  then,  my  dis- 
appointment on  entering  London  to  see  no  signs  of  that  opulence 
so  much  talked  of  abroad.  Wherever  I turn  I am  presented  with  a 
gloomy  solemnity  in  the  houses,  the  streets,  and  the  inhabitants ; 
none  of  that  beautiful  gilding  which  makes  a principal  ornament  in 
Chinese  architecture.  The  streets  of  Nankin  are  sometimes  strewed 
with  gold  leaf.  Very  different  are  those  of  London  ; in  the  midst  of 
their  pavements  a great  lazy  puddle  moves  muddily  along ; heavy- 
laden  machines,  with  wheels  of  unweildy  thickness,  crowd  up  every 
passage,  so  that  a stranger,  instead  of  finding  time  for  observation, 
is  often  happy  if  he  has  time  to  escape  from  being  crushed  to 
pieces. 

The  houses  borrow  very  few  ornaments  from  architecture  ; their 
chief  decoration  seems  to  be  a paltry  piece  of  painting  hung  out  at 
their  doors  or  windows,  at  once  a proof  of  their  indigence  and 
vanity — their  vanity,  in  each  having  one  of  those  pictures  exposed 
to  public  view ; and  their  indigence,  in  being  unable  to  get  them 
better  painted.  In  this  respect  the  fancy  of  their  painters  is  also 
deplorable.  Could  you  believe  it  ? I have  seen  five  black  lions  and 
three  blue  boars  in  less  than  the  circuit  of  half  a mile  ; and  yet  you 
know  that  animals  of  these  colors  are  nowhere  to  be  found  except  in 
the  wild  imaginations  of  Europe. 

Erom  these  circumstances  in  their  buildings,  and  from  the  dismal 
looks  of  the  inhabitants,  I am  induced  to  conclude  that  the  nation 
is  actually  poor;  and  that,  like  the  Persians,  they  make  a splendid 
figure  everywhere  but  at  home.  The  proverb  of  Xixofu  is,  that  a 
man’s  riches  may  be  seen  in  his  eyes.  If  we  judge  of  the  English  by 
this  rule,  there  is  not  a poorer  nation  under  the  sun. 

I have  been  here  but  two  days,  so  will  not  be  hasty  in  my  deci- 
sions. Such  letters  as  I shall  write  to  Fipsihi,  in  Moscow,  I beg  you’ll 
endeavor  to  forward  with  all  diligence.  I shall  send  them  open,  in 
order  that  you  may  take  copies  or  translations,  as  you  are  equally 
versed  in  the  Dutch  and  Chinese  languages.  Dear  friend,  think  of 
my  absence  with  regret,  as  I sincerely  regret  yours ; even  while  I 
write,  I lament  our  separation.  Farewell ! 


242  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

LETTER  FROM  LIEN  CHI  ALTANGI  TO  FUM  HOAM,  FIRST  PRESIDENT 

OF  THE  CEREMONIAL  ACADEMY  AT  PEKIN,  IN  CHINA — PICTURE 

OF  A LONDON  SHOPKEEPER. 

The  shops  of  London  are  as  well  furnished  as  those  of  Pekin. 
Those  of  London  have  a picture  hung  at  their  door,  informing  the 
passengers  what  they  have  to  sell,  as  those  at  Pekin  have  a hoard  to 
assure  the  buyer  that  they  have  no  intention  to  cheat  him. 

I was  this  morning  to  buy  silk  for  a nightcap.  Immediately  upon 
entering  the  mercer’s  shop,  the  master  and  his  two  men,  with  wrigs 
plastered  with  powder,  appeared  to  ask  my  commands.  They  were 
certainly  the  civilest  people  alive  ; if  I but  looked,  they  flew  to  the 
place  where  I cast  my  eye  ; every  motion  of  mine  sent  them  run- 
ning round  the  whole  shop  for  my  satisfaction.  I informed  them 
that  I wanted  what  was  good,  and  they  showed  me  not  less  than 
forty  pieces,  and  each  was  better  than  the  former,  the  prettiest  pat- 
tern in  nature,  and  the  fittest  in  the  world  for  nightcaps.  “ My 
very  good  friend,”  said  I ^o  the  mercer,  “you  must  not  pretend  to 
instruct  me  in  silks  ; I know  these  in  particular  to  be  no  better 
than  your  mere  flimsy  Bungees.”  “That  may  be,”  cried  the 
mercer,  who  I afterwards  found  had  never  contradicted  a man  in 
his  life,  “ I cannot  pretend  to  say  but  they  may  ; but  I can  assure  you 
my  Lady  Trail  has  had  a sacque  from  this  piece  this  very  morning.” 
“ But,  my  friend,”  said  I,  “ though  my  lady  has  chosen  a sacque  from 
it,  I see  no  necessity  that  I should  wear  it  for  a nightcap.”  “That 
may  be,”  returned  he  again  ; “ yet  what  becomes  a pretty  lady  will 
at  any  time  look  well  on  a handsome  gentleman.”  This  short 
compliment  was  thrown  in  so  very  seasonably  upon  my  ugly  face 
that  even  though  I disliked  the  silk  I desired  him  to  cut  me  ofi 
the  pattern  of  a nightcap. 

While,  this  business  was  consigned  to  his  journeymen,  the  master 
himself  took  down  some  pieces  of  silk  still  finer  than  any  I had 
yet  seen,  and  spreading  them  before  me  : “ There,”  cries  he, 
“ there’s  beauty  ! ” My  Lord  Snakeskin  has  bespoke  the  fellow  to 
this  for  the  birthnight  this  very  morning  ; it  would  look  charmingly 
in  waistcoats.”  “But  I do  not  want  a waistcoat,”  replied  I.  “Not 
want  a waistcoat,”  returned  the  mercer,  “ then  I would  advise  you 
to  buy  one  ; when  waistcoats  are  wanted,  depend  upon  it,  they  will 
come  dear.  Always  buy  before  you  want,  and  you  are  sure  to  be 
well  used,  as  they  say  in  Cheapside.”  There  was  so  much  justice 


Oliver  Goldsmith . 


243 


in  his  advice  that  I could  not  refuse  taking  it ; besides,  the  silk, 
which  was  really  a good  one,  increased  the  temptation,  so  I gave 
orders  for  that  too. 

As  I was  waiting  to  have  my  bargains  measured  and  cut,  which, 
I know  not  how,  they  executed  but  slowly,  during  the  interval  the 
mercer  entertained  me  with  the  modern  manner  of  some  of  the  no- 
bility receiving  company  in  their  morning-gowns.  “ Perhaps,  sir,” 
adds  he,  “ you  have  a mind  to  see  what  kind  of  silk  is  universally 
worn.”  Without  waiting  for  my  reply,  he  spreads  a piece  before 
me  which  might  be  reckoned  beautiful  even  in  China.  “If  the 
nobility,”  continues  he,  “were  to  knew  I sold  this  to  any  under  a 
right  honorable  I should  certainly  lose  their  custom.  You  see,  my 
lord,  it  is  at  once  rich  and  tasty,  and  quite  the  thing.”  “ I am  no 
lord,”  interrupted  I.  “ I beg  pardon,”  cried  he,  “ but  be  pleased 
to  remember  when  you  intend  buying  a morning-gown  that  you  had 
an  offer  from  me  of  something  worth  money.  Conscience,  sir, 
conscience  is  my  way  of  dealing ; you  may  buy  a morning-gown 
now,  or  you  may  stay  till  they  become  dearer  and  less  fashionable ; 
but  it  is  not  my  business  to  advise.”  In  short,  most  reverend  Fum, 
he  persuaded  me  to  buy  a morning-gown  also,  and  would  probably 
have  persuaded  me  to  have  bought  half  the  goods  in  his  shop,  if  I 
had  stayed  long  enough,  or  was  furnished  with  sufficient  money. 

Upon  returning  home,  I could  not  help  reflecting,  with  some 
astonishment,  how  this  very  man,  with  such  a confined  education 
and  capacity,  was  yet  capable  of  turning  me  as  he  thought  proper, 
and  moulding  me  to  his  inclinations.  I knew  he  was  only  answer- 
ing his  own  purposes,  even  while  he  attempted  to  appear  solicitous 
about  mine  ; yet  by  a voluntary  infatuation,  a sort  of  passion  com- 
pounded of  vanity  and  good-nature,  I walked  into  the  snare  with 
my  eyes  open,  and  put  myself  to  future  pain  in  order  to  give  him 
immediate  pleasure.  The  wisdom  of  the  ignorant  somewhat  re- 
sembles the  instinct  of  animals ; it  is  diffused  in  but  a very  narrow 
sphere,  but  within  that  circle  it  acts  with  vigor,  uniformity,  and 
success.  Adieu  ! 


LETTER  FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME — THE  ENGLISH  LAW  COURTS 
AS  SEEN  BY  A CHINESE  PHILOSOPHER. 

I had  some  intentions  lately  of  going  to  visit  Bedlam,  the  place 
Where  those  who  go  mad  are  confined.  I went  to  wait  mpon  the 


244 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


man  in  black  to  be  my  conductor,  but  I found  him  preparing  to  go 
to  Westminster  Hall,  where  the  English  hold  their  courts  of  justice. 
It  gave  me  some  surprise  to  find  my  friend  engaged  in  a lawsuit,  but 
more  so  when  he  informed  me  that  it  had  been  depending  for  seve- 
ral years.  “Ilow  is  it  possible,”  cried  I,  “fora  man  who  knows 
the  world  to  go  to  law  ? I am  well  acquainted  with  the  courts  of 
justice  in  China ; they  resemble  rat-traps  every  one  of  them  ; no- 
thing more  easy  than  to  get  in,  but  to  get  out  again  is  attended  with 
some  difficulty,  and  more  cunning  than  rats  are  generally  found  to 
possess  ! ” 

“ Faith,”  replied  my  friend,  “ I should  not  have  gone  to  law  but 
that  I was  assured  of  success  before  I began.  Things  were  presented 
to  me  in  so  alluring  a light  that  I thought  by  barely  declaring  my- 
self a candidate  for  the  prize  I had  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  en- 
joy the  fruits  of  the  victory.  Thus  have  I been  upon  the  eve  of  an 
imaginary  triumph  every  term  these  ten  years ; have  travelled  forward 
with  victory  ever  in  my  view  but  ever  ou  t of  reach.  However,  at  pre- 
sent I fancy  we  have  hampered  our  antagonist  in  such  a manner 
that  without  some  unforeseen  demur  we  shall  this  day  lay  him  fairly 
on  his  back.” 

“If  things  be  so  situated,”  cried  I,  “I  do  not  care  if  I attend  you 
to  the  courts  and  partake  of  the  pleasure  of  your  success.  But 
prithee,”  continued  I,  as  we  set  forward,  “ what  reasons  have  you 
to  think  an  aSair  at  last  concluded  which  has  given  so  many  for- 
mer disappointments  ? ” “ My  lawyer  tells  me,”  returned  he, 

“ that  I have  Salkeld  and  Yentris  strong  in  my  favor , and  that  there 
are  no  less  than  fifteen  cases  in  point.”  “ I understand,”  said  I, 
“those  are  two  of  your  judges  who  have  already  declared  their 
opinions.”  “ Pardon  me,”  replied  my  friend,  “ Salkeld  and  Yen- 
tris are  lawyers  who  some  hundred  years  ago  gave  their  opinions  on 
cases  similar  to  mine.  These  opinions  which  make  for  me  my  lawyer 
is  to  cite,  and  those  opinions  which  look  another  way  are  cited  by 
the  lawyer  employed  by  my  antagonist.  As  I observed,  I have  Sal. 
keld  and  Ventris  for  me,  he  has  Coke  and  Hale  for  him,  and  he 
that  has  most  opinions  is  most  likely  to  carry  his  cause.”  “ But 
where  is  the  necessity,”  cried  I,  “ of  prolonging  a suit  by  citing 
the  opinions  and  reports  of  others,  since  the  same  good  sense  which 
determined  lawyers  in  former  ages  may  serve  to  guide  your  judges 
at  this  day  ? They  at  that  time  gave  their  opinions  only  from  the 
light  of  reason;  your  judges  have  the  same  light  at  present  to  direct 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


245 


them,  let  me  even  add  a greater,  as  in  former  ages  there  were  many 
prejudices  from  which  the  present  is  happily  free.  If  arguing  from 
authorities  be  exploded  from  every  other  branch  of  learning,  why 
should  it  be  particularly  adhered  to  in  this  ? I plainly  foresee 
how  such  a method  of  investigation  must  embarrass  every  suit,  and 
even  perplex  the  students ; ceremonies  will  be  multiplied,  formali- 
ties must  increase,  and  more  time  will  thus  be  spent  in  learning  the 
arts  of  litigation  than  in  the  discovery  of  right.” 

“ I see,”  cries  my  friend,  “ that  you  are  for  a speedy  administra- 
tion of  justice,  but  all  the  world  will  grant  that  the  more  time  that 
is  taken  up  in  considering  any  subject,  the  better  it  will  be  under- 
stood. Besides,  it  is  the  boast  of  an  Englishman  that  his  property 
is  secure,  and  all  the  world  will  grant  that  a deliberate  administra- 
tion of  justice  is  the  best  way  to  secure  his  property.  Why  have  we 
so  many  lawyers  but  to  secure  our  property  ? Why  so  many  forma- 
lities but  to  secure  our  property  ? Not  less  than  one  hundred  thou- 
sand families  live  in  opulence,  elegance,  and  ease  merely  by  securing 
our  property.” 

“ To  embarrass  justice,”  returned  I,  “ by  a multiplicity  of  laws, 
or  to  hazard  it  by  a confidence  in  our  judges,  are,  I grant,  the  oppo- 
site rocks  on  which  legislative  wisdom  has  ever  split.  In  one  case 
the  client  resembles  that  emperor  who  is  said  to  have  been  suffo- 
cated with  the  bed-clothes  which  were  only  designed  to  keep  him 
warm ; in  the  other,  to  that  town  which  let  the  enemy  take  posses- 
sion of  its  walls  in  order  to  show  the  world  how  little  they  depended 
upon  aught  but  courage  for  safety.  But  bless  me,  what  numbers 
do  I see  here — all  in  black — how  is  it  possible  that  half  this  multi- 
tude find  employment  ! ” “Nothing  so  easily  conceived,”  returned 
my  companion;  “ they  live  by  watching  each  other.  For  instance, 
the  catchpole  watches  the  man  in  debt,  the  attorney  watches  the 
catclipole,  the  counsellor  watches  the  attorney,  the  solicitor  the 
counsellor,  and  all  find  sufficient  employment.”  “I  conceive  you,” 
interrupted  I ; “ they  watch  each  other,  but  it  is  the  client  that 
pays  them  all  for  watching.  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  a Chinese  fable 
which  is  entitled,  ‘ Five  Animals  at  a Meal : ’ 

“ ‘ A grasshopper  filled  with  dew  was  merrily  singing  under  a 
shade  ; a wliangam  that  eats  grasshoppers  had  marked  it  for  its  prey, 
and  was  just  stretching  forth  to  devour  it ; a serpent  that  had  for 
a long  time  fed  only  on  whangam  was  coiled  up  to  fasten  on  the 
whangam ; a yellow  bird  was  just  upon  the  wing  to  dart  upon  the 


246 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


serpent ; a hawk  had  just  stooped  from  above  to  seize  the  yellow 
bird.  All  were  intent  on  their  prey  and  unmindful  of  their  danger ; 
so  the  whangam  ate  the  grasshopper,  the  serpent  ate  the  whangam, 
the  yellow  bird  the  serpent,  and  the  hawk  the  yellow  bird,  when, 
sousing  from  on  high,  a vulture  gobbled  up  the  hawk,  grasshopper, 
whangam,  and  all  in  a moment.’  ” 

I had  scarcely  finished  my  fable  when  the  lawyer  came  to  inform 
my  friend  that  his  case  was  put  off  till  another  term,  that  money 
was  wanted  to  retain,  and  that  all  the  world  was  of  opinion  that 
the  very  next  hearing  would  bring  him  off  victorious.  “If  so, 
then,”  cries  my  friend,  “I  believe  it  will  be  my  wisest  way  to  con- 
tinue the  cause  for  another  term,  and  in  the  meantime  my  friend 
here  and  I will  go  and  see  Bedlam.”  Adieu  ! 


LETTER  FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME — CRITICISM  IM  ENGLAND. 

I have  frequently  admired  the  manner  of  criticising  in  China, 
where  the  learned  are  assembled  in  a body  to  judge  of  every  uew 
publication,  to  examine  the  merits  of  the  work  without  knowing 
the  circumstances  of  the  author,  and  then  to  usher  it  into  the  world 
with  proper  marks  of  respect  or  reprobation. 

In  England  there  are  no  such  tribunals  erected ; but  if  a man 
thinks  proper  to  be  a judge  of  genius,  few  will  be  at  the  pains  to 
contradict  his  pretensions.  If  any  choose  to  be  critics,  it  is  but 
saying  they  are  critics,  and  from  that  time  forward  they  become 
invested  with  full  power  and  authority  over  every  caitiff  who  aims  at 
their  instruction  or  entertainment. 

As  almost  every  member  of  society  has  by  this  means  a vote  in 
literary  transactions,  it  is  no  way  surprising  to  find  the  rich  leading 
the  way  here  as  in  other  common  concerns  of  life — to  see  them  either 
bribing  the  numerous  herd  of  voters  by  their  interest,  or  browbeat- 
ing them  by  their  authority. 

A great  man  says  at  his  table  that  such  a book  “ is  no  bad  thing.” 
Immediately  the  praise  is  carried  off  by  five  flatterers  to  be  dis- 
persed at  twelve  different  coffee-houses,  from  whence  it  circulates, 
still  improving  as  it  proceeds,  through  forty-five  houses  where 
cheaper  liquors  are  sold  ; from  thence  it  is  carried  away  by  the  honest 
tradesman  to  his  own  fireside,  where  the  applause  is  eagerly  caught 
up  by  his  wife  and  children  who  have  been  long  taught  to  regard  his 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


247 


judgment  as  the  standard  of  perfection.  Thus  when  we  have  traced 
a wide-extended  literary  reputation  up  to  its  original  source,  we 
shall  find  it  derived  from  some  great  man,  who  has,  perhaps,  received 
all  his  education  and  English  from  a tutor  of  Berne  or  a dancing- 
master  of  Picardy. 

The  English  are  a people  of  good  senpe,  and  I am  the  more  sur- 
prised to  find  them  swayed  in  their  opinions  by  men  who  often,  from 
their  very  education,  are  incompetent  judges.  Men  who,  being  , 
always  bred  in  affluence,  see  the  world  only  on  one  side,  are  surely 
improper  judges  of  human  nature.  They  may  indeed  describe  a 
ceremony,  a pageant,  or  a ball  ; but  how  can  they  pretend  to  dive 
into  the  secrets  of  the  human  heart,  who  have  been  nursed  up  only 
in  forms,  and  daily  behold  nothing  but  the  same  insipid  adulation 
smiling  upon  every  face.  Few  of  them  have  been  bred  in  that  best 
of  schools,  the  school  of  adversity  ; and,  by  what  I can  learn,  fewer 
still  have  been  bred  in  any  school  at  all. 

From  such  a description  one  would  think  that  a droning  duke  or 
a dowager  duchess  was  not  possessed  of  more  just  pretensions  to 
taste  than  persons  of  less  quality ; and  yet  whatever  the  one  or  the 
other  may  write  or  praise  shall  pass  for  perfection,  without  further 
examination.  A nobleman  has  but  to  take  a pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
write  away  through  three  large  volumes,  and  then  sign  his  name  to 
the  title-page ; though  the  whole  might  have  been  before  more  dis- 
gusting than  his  own  rent-roll,  yet  signing  his  name  and  title  gives 
value  to  the  deed,  title  being  alone  equivalent  to  taste,  imagination, 
and  genius. 

As  soon  as  a piece,  therefore,  is  published,  the  first  questions 
are : Who  is  the  author  ? Does  he  keep  a coach  ? Where  lies  his 
estate  ? What  sort  of  a table  does  he  keep  ? If  he  happens  to  be 
poor  and  unqualified  for  such  a scrutiny,  he  and  his  works  sink  into 
irremediable  obscurity,  and  too  late  he  finds  that  having  fed  upon 
turtle  is  a more  ready  way  to  fame  than  having  digested  Tully. 

The  poor  devil  against  whom  fashion  has  set  its  face  vainly 
alleges  that  he  has  been  bred  in  every  part  of  Europe  where  know- 
ledge was  to  be  sold;  that  he  has  grown  pale  in  the  study  of  nature 
and  himself.  His  works  may  please  upon  the  perusal,  but  his  preten- 
sions to  fame  are  entirely  disregarded.  He  is  treated  like  a fiddler 
whose  music,  though  liked,  is  not  much  praised,  because  he  lives  by 
it ; while  a gentleman  performer,  though  the  most  wretched  scraper 
alive,  throws  the  audience  into  raptures.  The  fiddler,  indeed,  may 


248 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


m such  a case  console  himself  with  thinking  that  while  the  other 
goes  off  with  all  the  praise,  he  runs  away  with  all  the  money ; but 
here  the  parallel  drops ; for  while  the  nobleman  triumphs  in  un- 
merited applause,  the  author  by  profession  steals  off  with — nothing. 

The  poor,  therefore,  here,  who  draw  their  pens  auxiliary  to  the 
laws  of  their  country,  must  think  themselves  very  happy  if  they  find, 
not  fame,  but  forgiveness ; and  yet  they  are  hardly  treated ; for  as 
every  country  grows  more  polite,  the  press  becomes  more  useful, 
and  writers  become  more  necessary  as  readers  are  supposed  to  in- 
crease. In  a polished  society,  that  man,  though  in  rags,  who  has 
the  power  of  enforcing  virtue  from  the  press,  is  of  more  real  use 
than  forty  stupid  brachmans,  or  bonzes,  or  guebres,  though  they 
preached  never  so  often,  never  so  loud,  or  never  so  long.  That 
man,  though  in  rags,  who  is  capable  of  deceiving  even  indolence 
into  wisdom,  and  professes  amusement  while  he  aims  at  reforma- 
tion, is  more  useful  in  refined  society  than  twenty  cardinals  with 
all  their  scarlet,  and  tricked  out  in  all  the  fopperies  of  scholastic 
finery. 


LETTER  FBOM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME — HOW  KOTOS  REWARD. 

The  princes  of  Europe  have  found  out  a manner  of  rewarding 
their  subjects  who  have  behaved  well,  by  presenting  them  with 
about  two  yards  of  blue  ribbon,  which  is  worn  about  the  shoulder. 
They  who  are  honored  with  this  mark  of  distinction  are  called 
knights,  and  the  king  himself  is  always  the  head  of  the  order. 
This  is  a very  frugal  method  of  recompensing  the  most  important 
services,  a::d  it  is  very  fortunate  for  kings  that  their  subjects  are 
satisfied  with  such  trifling  rewards.  Should  a nobleman  happen  to 
lose  his  leg  in  a battle,  the  king  presents  him  with  two  yards  of 
ribbon,  and  he  is  paid  for  the  loss  of  his  limb.  Should  an  ambas- 
sador spend  all  his  paternal  fortune  in  supporting  the  honor  of  his 
country  abroad,  the  king  presents  him  with  two  yards  of  ribbon, 
which  is  to  be  considered  as  an  equivalent  to  his  estate.  In  short, 
while  a European  king  has  a yard  of  blue  or  green  ribbon  left,  he 
need  be  under  no  apprehension  of  wanting  statesmen,  generals,  and 
soldiers. 

I cannot  sufficiently  admire  those  kingdoms  in  which  men  with 
large  patrimonial  estates  are  willing  thus  to  undergo  real  hardships 


Oliver  Goldsmith, 


249 


for  empty  favors.  A person  already  possessed  of  a competent  for- 
tune, who  undertakes  to  enter  the  career  of  ambition,  feels  many 
real  inconveniences  from  his  station,  while  it  procures  him  no  real 
happiness  that  he  was  not  possessed  of  before.  He  could  eat,  drink, 
and  sleep  before  he  became  a courtier,  as  well,  perhaps  better,  than 
when  invested  with  his  authority.  He  could  command  flatterers  in 
a private  station  as  well  as  in  his  public  capacity,  and  indulge  at 
home  every  favorite  inclination  uncensured  and  unseen  by  the 
people. 

What  real  good,  then,  does  an  addition  to  a fortune  already  suf- 
ficient procure  ? Not  any.  Could  the  great  man,  by  having  his 
fortune  increased,  increase  also  his  appetites,  then  precedence  might 
be  attended  with  real  amusement. 

Was  he,  by  having  his  one  thousand  made  two,  thus  enabled  to 
enjoy  two  wives  or  eat  two  dinners,  then,  indeed,  he  might  be  ex- 
cused for  undergoing  some  pain  in  order  to  extend  the  sphere  of  his 
enjoyment.  But,  on  the  contrary,  he  finds  his  desire  for  pleasure 
often  lessen  as  he  takes  pains  to  be  able  to  improve  it ; and  his 
capacity  of  enjoyment  diminishes  as  his  fortune  happens  to  in- 
crease. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  regarding  the  great  with  envy,  I generally 
consider  them  with  some  share  of  compassion.  I look  upon  them 
as  a set  of  good-natured,  misguided  people,  who  are  indebted  to  us 
and  not  to  themselves  for  all  the  happiness  they  enjoy.  For  our 
pleasure,  and  not  their  own,  they  sweat  under  a cumbrous  heap  of 
finery  ; for  our  pleasure  the  lackeyed  train,  the  slow-parading  pa- 
geant, with  all  the  gravity  of  grandeur,  moves  in  review.  A single 
coat,  or  a single  footman,  answers  all  the  purposes  of  the  most  indo- 
lent refinement  as  well ; and  those  who  have  twenty  may  be  said 
to  keep  one  for  their  own  pleasure,  and  the  other  nineteen  merely 
for  ours.  So  true  is  the  observation  of  Confucius,  “ that  we  take 
greater  pains  to  persuade  others  that  we  are  happy  than  endeavor- 
ing to  think  so  ourselves.” 

But  though  this  desire  of  being  seen,  of  being  made  the  subject 
of  discourse,  and  of  supporting  the  dignities  of  an  exalted  station, 
be  troublesome  enough  to  the  ambitious,  yet  it  is  well  for  society 
that  there  are  men  thus  willing  to  exchange  ease  and  safety  for  danger 
and  a ribbon.  We  lose  nothing  by  their  vanity,  and  it  would  be 
unkind  to  endeavor  to  deprive  a child  of  its  rattle.  If  a duke  or  a 
duchess  are  willing  to  carry  a long  train  for  our  entertainment,  so 


250 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

much  the  worse  for  themselves ; if  they  choose  to  exhibit  in  public 
with  a hundred  lackeys  and  Mamelukes  in  their  equipage  for  our 
entertainment,  still  so  much  the  worse  for  themselves.  It  is  the 
spectators  alone  who  give  and  receive  the  pleasure ; they,  only  the 
sweating  figures  that  swell  the  pageant. 

A mandarin  who  took  much  pride  in  appearing  with  a number 
of  jewels  on  every  part  of  his  robe  was  once  accosted  by  an  old,  sly 
bonze,  who,  following  him  through  several  streets,  and  bowing 
often  to  the  ground,  thanked  him  for  his  jewels.  “What  does  he 
mean?”  cried  the  mandarin.  “Friend,  I never  gave  thee  any  of 
my  jewels.”  “No,”  replied  the  other  ; “ but  you  have  let  me  look 
at  them,  and  that  is  all  the  use  you  can  make  of  them  yourself  ; so 
there  is  no  difference  between  us,  except  that  you  have  the  trouble 
of  watching  them,  and  that  is  an  employment  I don’t  much  desire.” 
Adieu ! 


LETTER  FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME — A GLANCE  AT  WEST- 
MINSTER ABBEY. 

I am  just  returned  from  Westminster  Abbey,  the  place  of  sepul- 
ture for  the  philosophers,  heroes,  and  kings  of  England.  What  a 
gloom  do  monumental  inscriptions,  and  all  the  venerable  remains  of 
a deceased  merit,  inspire  ! Imagine  a temple,  marked  with  the 
hand  of  antiquity,  solemn  as  religious  awe,  adorned  with  all  the 
magnificence  of  barbarous  profusion,  dim  windows,  fretted  pillars, 
long  colonnades,  and  dark  ceilings.  Think,  then,  what  were  my 
sensations  at  being  introduced  to  such  a scene.  I stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  temple  and  threw  my  eyes  round  on  the  walls,  filled 
with  the  statues,  the  inscriptions,  and  the  monuments  of  the  dead. 

Alas  ! I said  to  myself,  how  does  pride  attend  the  puny  child  of 
dust  even  to  the  grave  ! Even,  humble  as  I am,  I possess  more  con- 
sequence in  the  present  scene  than  the  greatest  hero  of  them  all. 
They  have  toiled  for  an  hour  to  gain  a transient  immortality,  and 
are  at  length  retired  to  the  grave,  where  they  have  no  attendant  but 
the  worm,  none  to  flatter  but  the  epitaph. 

As  I was  indulging  such  reflections,  a gentleman  dressed  in 
black,  perceiving  me  to  be  a stranger,  came  up,  entered  into  conver- 
sation, and  politely  offered  to  be  my  instructor  and  guide  through 
the  temple.  “If  any  monument,”  said  he,  “should  particularly 
excite  your  curiosity,  I shall  endeavor  to  satisfy  your  demands.”  I 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


251 


accepted  with  thanks  the  gentleman’s  offer,  adding  that  “I  was 
come  to  observe  the  policy,  the  wisdom,  and  the  justice  of  the  Eng- 
lish in  conferring  rewards  upon  deceased  merit.  If  adulation  like 
this  (continued  I)  be  properly  conducted,  as  it  can  no  ways  in- 
jure those  who  are  flattered,  so  it  may  be  a glorious  incentive  to 
those  who  are  now  capable  of  enjoying  it.  It  is  the  duty  of  every 
good  government  to  turn  this  monumental  pride  to  its  own  advan- 
tage ; to  become  strong  in  the  aggregate  from  the  weakness  of  the 
individual.  If  none  but  the  truly  great  have  a place  in  this  awful 
repository,  a temple  like  this  will  give  the  finest  lessons  of  morality, 
and  be  a strong  incentive  to  true  merit.”  The  man  in  black  seemed 
impatient  at  my  observations,  so  I discontinued  my  remarks,  and 
we  walked  on  together  to.  take  a view  of  every  particular  monument 
in  order  as  it  lay. 

As  the  eye  is  naturally  caught  by  the  finest  objects,  I could  not 
avoid  being  particularly  curious  about  one  monument  which  ap- 
peared more  beautiful  than  the  rest.  “That,”  said  I to  my 
guide,  “ I take  to  be  the  tomb  of  some  very  great  man.  By  the 
peculiar  excellence  of  the  workmanship  and  the  magnificence  of  the 
design,  this  must  be  a trophy  raised  to  the  memory  of  some  king 
who  has  saved  his  country  from  ruin,  or  lawgiver  who  has  reduced 
his  fellow-citizens  from  anarchy  into  just  subjection.”  “It  is  not 
requisite,”  replied  my  companion,  smiling,  “to  have  such  qualifica- 
tions in  order  to  have  a very  fine  monument  here.  More  humble 
abilities  will  suffice.”  “ What ! I suppose,  then,  the  gaining  two  or 
three  battles  or  the  taking  half-a-score  of  towns  is  thought  a suffi- 
cient qualification?”  “Gaining  battles  or  taking  towns,”  replied 
the  man  in  black,  “ may  be  of  service  ; but  a gentleman  may  have  a 
very  fine  monument  here  without  ever  seeing  a battle  or  a siege.” 
“ This,  then,  is  the  monument  of  some  poet,  I presume — of  one 
whose  wit  has  gained  him  immortality  ? ” “No,  sir,”  replied  my 
guide  ; “ the  gentleman  who  lies  here  never  made  verses,  and  as  for 
wit,  he  despised  it  in  others,  because  he  had  none  himself.”  “ Pray, 
tell  me,  then,  in  a word,”  said  I peevishly,  “ what  is  the  great  man 
who  lies  here  particularly  remarkable  for  ?”  “ Remarkable,  sir  !” 

said  my  companion  ; “why,  sir,  the  gentleman  that  lies  here  is  re- 
markable, very  remarkable — for  a tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey.” 
“ But,  head  of  my  ancestors  ! how  has  he  got  here  ? I fancy  he 
could  never  bribe  the  guardians  of  the  temple  to  give  him  a place. 
Should  he  not  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  among  company  where  even 


252 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


moderate  merit  would  look  like  infamy?”  “I  suppose,”  replied 
the  man  in  black,  4 4 the  gentleman  was  rich,  and  his  friends — it  is 
usual  in  such  a case — told  him  he  was  great.  He  readily  believed 
them.  The  guardians  of  the  temple,  as  they  got  by  the  self-delusion, 
were  ready  to  believe  him  too ; so  he  paid  his  money  for  a fine 
monument,  and  the  workman,  as  you  see,  has  made  him  one  of  the 
most  beautiful.  Think  not,  however,  that  this  gentleman  is  singu- 
lar in  his  desire  of  being  buried  among  the  great ; there  are  several 
others  in  the  temple  who,  hated  and  shunned  by  the  great  while 
alive,  have  come  here  fully  resolved  to  keep  them  company  now 
they  are  dead.” 

As  we  walked  along  to  a particular  part  of  the  temple,  “ There,” 
says  the  gentleman,  pointing  with  his  finger,  “that  is  the  poets’ 
corner  ; there  you  see  the  monuments  of  Shakspeare,  and  Milton, 
and  Prior,  and  Drayton.”  “ Drayton  ! ” I replied ; “ I never  heard  of 
him  before  ; but  I have  been  told  of  one  Pope;  is  he  there  ? ” “ It 

is  time  enough,”  replied  my  guide,  “these  hundred  years;  he  is  not 
long  dead;  people  have  not  done  hating  him  yet.”  “Strange;” 
cried  I,  “can  any  be  found  to  hate  a man  whose  life  was  wholly 
spent  in  entertaining  and  instructing  his  fellow-creatures  ? ” “ Yes,” 

says  my  guide,  “ they  hate  him  for  that  very  reason.  There  are  a set 
of  men  called  answerers  of  books,  who  take  upon  them  to  watch  the 
republic  of  letters,  and  distribute  reputation  by  the  sheet.  They 
somewhat  resemble  the  eunuchs  in  a seraglio,  who  are  incapable  of 
giving  pleasure  themselves,  and  hinder  those  that  would.  These 
answerers  have  no  other  employment  but  to  cry  out  dunce  and 
scribbler  ; to  praise  the  dead  and  revile  the  living  ; to  grant  a man 
of  confessed  abilities  some  small  share  of  merit ; to  applaud  twenty 
blockheads  in  order  to  gain  the  reputation  of  candor,  and  to  revile 
the  moral  character  of  the  man  whose  writing  they  cannot  injure. 
Such  wretches  are  kept  in  pay  by  some  mercenary  bookseller,  or, 
more  frequently,  the  bookseller  himself  takes  this  dirty  work  off 
their  hands,  as  all  that  is  required  is  to  be  very  abusive  and 
very  dull.  Every  poet  of  any  genius  is  sure  to  find  such  enemies. 
He  feels,  though  he  seems  to  despise,  their  malice ; they  make  him 
miserable  here,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  empty  fame  at  last  he  gains 
solid  anxiety.” 

“Has  this  been  the  case  with  every  poet  I see  here  ?”  cried  I. 
“Yes,  with  every  mother’s  son  of  them,”  replied  he;  “ except  he 
happened  to  be  born  a mandarin.  If  he  has  much  money,  he  may 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


253 


buy  reputation  from  your  book-answerers,  as  well  as  a monument 
from  the  guardians  of  the  temple.” 

“But  are  there  not  some  men  of  distinguished  taste,  as  in 
China,  who  are  willing  to  patronize  men  of  merit,  and  soften  the 
rancor  of  malevolent  dulness  ? ” 

“I  own  there  are  many,”  replied  the  man  in  black ; “but,  alas  ! 
sir,  the  book-answerers  crowd  about  them,  and  call  themselves  the 
writers  of  books,  and  the  patron  is  too  indolent  to  distinguish  ; 
thus  poets  are  kept  at  a distance,  while  their  enemies  eat  up  all 
their  rewards  at  the  mandarin’s  table.” 

Leaving  this  part  of  the  temple,  we  made  up  to  an  iron  gate, 
through  which  my  companion  told  me  we  were  to  pass  in  order  to 
see  the  monuments  of  the  kings.  Accordingly  I marched  up  with- 
out further  ceremony,  and  was  going  to  enter,  when  a person  who 
held  the  gate  in  his  hand  told  me  I must  pay  first.  I was  surprised 
at  such  a demand,  and  asked  the  man  whether  the  people  of  Eng- 
land kept  a show  ? whether  the  paltry  sum  he  demanded  was  not  a 
national  reproach  ? whether  it  was  not  more  to  the  honor  of  the 
country  to  let  their  magnificence  or  their  antiquities  be  openly 
seen  than  thus  meanly  to  tax  a curiosity  which  tended  to  their  own 
honor  ? “As  for  your  questions,”  replied  the  gate-keeper,  “ to  be 
sure  they  may  be  very  right,  because  I don’t  understand  them  ; but 
as  for  that  threepence,  I farm  it  from  one,  who  rents  it  from 
another,  who  hires  it  from  a third,  who  leases  it  from  the  guardians 
of  the  temple,  and  we  all  must  live.”  I expected,  upon  paying 
here,  to  see  something  extraordinary,  since  what  I had  seen  for 
nothing  filled  me  with  so  much  surprise  ; but  in  this  I was  dis- 
appointed. There  was  little  more  within  than  black  coffins,  rusty 
armor,  tattered  standards,  and  some  few  slovenly  figures  in  wax. 
I was  sorry  I had  paid,  but  I comforted  myself  by  considering  it 
would  be  my  last  payment.  A person  attended  us,  who,  without 
once  blushing,  told  a hundred  lies ; he  talked  of  a lady  who  died 
by  pricking  her  finger ; of  a king  with  a golden  head,  and  twenty 
such  pieces  of  absurdity.  “Look  ye  there,  gentlemen,”  says  he, 
pointing  to  an  old  oak  chair,  “there’s  a curiosity  for  ye.  I11  that 
chair  the  kings  of  England  were  crowned  ; you  see  also  a stone  un- 
derneath, and  that  stone  is  Jacob’s  pillow.”  I could  see  no  curiosity 
either  in  the  oak  chair  or  the  stone.  Could  I indeed  behold  one  of 
the  old  kings  of  England  seated  in  this,  or  Jacob’s  head  laid 
upon  the  other,  there  might  be  something  curious  in  the  sight; 


254  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 

but  in  the  present  case  there  was  no  more  reason  for  my  surprise 
than  if  I should  pick  a stone  from  their  streets,  and  call  it  a 
curiosity,  merely  because  one  of  the  kings  happened  to  tread  upon 
it  as  he  passed  in  a precession. 

From  hence  our  conductor  led  us  through  several  dark  walls  and 
winding  ways,  uttering  lies,  talking  to  himself,  and  flourishing  a 
wand  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  reminded  me  of  the  black 
magicians  of  Kobi.  After  wTe  had  been  almost  fatigued  with  a 
variety  of  objects,  he  at  last  desired  me  to  consider  attentively  a 
certain  suit  of  armor,  which  seemed  to  show  nothing  remarkable. 
“This  armor,”  said  he,  “belonged  to  General  Monk.”  “Very 
surprising  that  a general  should  wear  armor ! ” “ And  pray,” 

added  he,  “ observe  this  cap,  this  is  General  Monk’s  cap.”  “Very 
strange  indeed,  very  strange,  that  a general  should  have  a cap  also  ! 
Pray,  friend,  what  might  this  cap  have  cost  originally  ? ” “ That, 

sir,”  says  he,  “ I don’t  know  ; but  this  cap  is  all  the  wages  I have 
for  my  trouble.”  “ A very  small  recompense,  truly,”  said  I.  “ Hot 
so  very  small,”  replied  he,  “for  every  gentleman  puts  some  money 
into  it,  and  I spend  the  money.”  “ What,  more  money  ! Still  more 
money  ! ” “ Every  gentleman  gives  something,  sir.”  “ I’ll  give 

thee  nothing,”  returned  I;  “the  guardians  of  the  temple  should 
pay  your  wages,  friend,  and  not  permit  you  to  squeeze  thus  from 
every  spectator.  When  we  pay  our  money  at  the  door  to  see  a 
show,  we  never  give  more  as  we  are  going  out.  Sure  the  guardians 
of  the  temple  can  never  think  they  get  enough.  Show  me  the 
gate ; if  I stay  longer,  I may  probably  meet  with  more  of  those 
ecclesiastical  beggars.  ” 

Thus  leaving  the  temple  precipitately,  I returned  to  my  lodgings, 
in  order  to  ruminate  over  what  was  great  and  to  despise  what  was 
mean  in  the  occurrences  of  the  day. 


LETTER  FROM  LIEN  CHI  ALTANGI  TO  HINGPO,  BY  THE  WAY  OF 
MOSCOW — FORTUNE  AND  WHANG,  THE  MILLER. 

The  Europeans  are  themselves  blind  who  describe  Fortune  with- 
out sight.  Ho  first-rate  beauty  ever  had  finer  eyes  or  saw  more 
clearly.  They  who  have  no  other  trade  but  seeking  their  fortune 
need  never  hope  to  find  her ; coquette-like  she  flies  from  her  close 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


255 


pursuers,  and  at  last  fixes  on  the  plodding  mechanic  who  stays  at 
home  and  minds  his  business. 

I am  amazed  how  men  can  call  her  blind  when  by  the  company 
she  keeps  she  seems  so  very  discerning.  Wherever  you  see  a gam- 
ing-table, be  very  sure  Fortune  is  not  there ; wherever  you  see  a 
house  with  the  doors  open,  be  very  sure  Fortune  is  not  there ; when 
you  see  a man  whose  pocket-holes  are  laced  with  gold,  be  satisfied 
Fortune  is  not  there ; wherever  you  see  a beautiful  woman  good- 
natured  and  obliging,  be  convinced  Fortune  is  never  there.  In 
short,  she  is  ever  seen  accompanying  industry,  and  as  often  trundling 
a wheelbarrow  as  lolling  in  a coach  and  six. 

If  you  would  make  Fortune  your  friend,  or,  to  personize  her  no 
longer,  if  you  desire,  my  son,  to  be  rich  and  have  money,  be  more 
eager  to  save  than  to  acquire.  When  people  say,  “ Money  is  to  be  got 
here  and  money  is  to  be  got  there,”  take  no  notice  ; mind  your  own 
business ; stay  where  you  are  and  secure  all  you  can  get,  without 
stirring.  When  you  hear  that  your  neighbor  has  picked  up  a purse 
of  gold  in  the  street,  never  run  out  into  the  same  street  looking 
about  you  in  order  to  pick  up  such  another ; or,  when  you  are  in- 
formed that  he  has  made  a fortune  in  one  branch  of  business,  never 
change  your  own  in  order  to  be  his  rival.  Do  not  desire  to  be  rich 
all  at  once,  but  patiently  add  farthing  to  farthing.  Perhaps  you 
despise  the  petty  sum ; and  yet  they  who  want  a farthing  and  have 
no  friend  that  will  lend  them  it  think  farthings  very  good  things. 
Whang,  the  foolish  miller,  when  he  wanted  a farthing  in  his  dis- 
tress, found  that  no  friend  would  lend,  because  they  knew  he  want- 
ed. Did  you  ever  read  the  story  of  Whang  in  our  books  of  Chinese 
learning;  he  who,  despising  small  sums  and  grasping  at  all,  lost 
even  what  he  had  ? 

Whang,  the  miller,  was  naturally  avaricious  ; nobody  loved  money 
better  than  he,  or  more  respected  those  that  had  it.  When  people 
would  talk  of  a rich  man  in  company,  Whang  would  say,  I 
know  him  very  well ; he  and  I have  been  long  acquainted ; he  and 
I are  intimate  ; he  stood  for  a child  of  mine.  But  if  ever  a poor 
man  was  mentioned  he  had  not  the  least  knowledge  of  the  man  ; 
he  might  be  very  well  for  aught  he  knew,  but  he  was  not  fond  of 
many  acquaintances,  and  loved  to  choose  his  company. 

Whang,  however,  with  all  his  eagerness  for  riches,  was  in  reality 
poor ; he  had  nothing  but  the  profits  of  his  mill  to  support  him ; 
but  though  these  were  small,  they  were  certain.  While  his  mill 


256  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

stood  and  went  he  was  sure  of  eating,  and  his  frugality  was  such 
that  he  every  day  laid  some  money  by,  which  he  would  at  intervals 
count  and  contemplate  with  much  satisfaction.  Yet  still  his  ac- 
quisitions were  not  equal  to  his  desires — he  only  found  himself 
above  want,  whereas  he  desired  to  be  possessed  of  affluence. 

One  day  as  he  was  indulging  these  wishes  he  was  informed  that 
a neighbor  of  his  had  found  a pan  of  money  underground,  having 
dreamed  of  it  three  nights  running  before.  These  tidings  were 
daggers  to  the  heart  of  poor  Whang.  “Here  am  I,”  says  he,  “toil- 
ing and  moiling  from  morning  till  night  for  a few  paltry  farthings, 
while  Neighbor  Hunks  only  goes  quietly  to  bed  and  dreams  himself 
into  thousands  before  morning.  Oh  ! that  I could  dream  like  him. 
With  what  pleasure  would  I dig  round  the  pan  ; how  sly  would  I 
carry  it  home;  not  even  my  wife  should  see  me;  and  then,  Oh  ! the 
pleasure  of  thrusting  one’s  hand  into  a heap  of  gold  up  to  the 
elbow.” 

Such  reflections  only  served  to  make  the  miller  unhappy ; he  dis- 
continued his  former  assiduity,  he  was  quite  disgusted  with  small 
gains,  and  his  customers  began  to  forsake  him.  Every  day  he  re- 
peated the  wish  and  every  night  laid  himself  down  to  dream.  For- 
tune, that  was  for  a long  time  unkind,  at  last,  however,  seemed  to 
smile  upon  his  distresses,  and  indulged  him  with  the  wished-for 
vision.  He  dreamed  that  under  a certain  part  of  the  foundation  of 
his  mill  there  was  concealed  a monstrous  pan  of  gold  and  diamonds, 
buried  deep  in  the  ground  and  covered  with  a large,  flat  stone.  He 
rose  up,  thanked  the  stars,  that  were  at  last  pleased  to  take  pity  on 
his  sufferings,  and  concealed  his  good  luck  from  every  person,  as  is 
usual  in  money  dreams,  in  order  to  have  the  vision  repeated  the 
two  succeeding  nights,  by  which  he  should  be  certain  of  its  vera- 
city. His  wishes  in  this  also  were  answered,  he  still  dreamed  of 
the  same  pan  of  money  in  the  very  same  place. 

Now,  therefore,  it  was  past  a doubt;  so,  getting  up  early  the 
third  morning,  he  repairs  alone,  with  a mattock  in  his  hand,  to  the 
mill,  and  began  to  undermine  that  part  of  the  wall  which  the 
vision  directed.  The  first  omen  of  success  that  he  met  was  a 
broken  mug ; digging  still  deeper,  he  turns  up  a house-tile,  quite 
new  and  entire.  At  last,  after  much  digging,  he  came  to  the  broad, 
flat  stone,  but  then  so  large  that  it  was  beyond  one  man’s  strength 
to  remove  it.  “Here,”  cried  he  in  raptures  to  himself,  “here  it 
is  ; under  this  stone  there  is  room  for  a very  large  pan  of  diamonds 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


257 


indeed.  I must  e’en  go  home  to  my  wife  and  tell  her  the  whole 
affair,  and  get  her  to  assist  me  in  turning  it  up.”  Away,  therefore, 
lie  goes  and  acquaints  his  wife  with  every  circumstance  of  their 
good  fortune.  Her  raptures  on  this  occasion  may  easily  be  im- 
agined, she  flew  round  his  neck  and  embraced  him  in  an  agony  of 
joy ; but  those  transports,  however,  did  not  delay  their  eagerness  to 
kuow  the  exact  sum.  Returning,  therefore,  speedily  together  to  the 
place  where  Whang  had  been  digging,,  there  they  found — not  in- 
deed the  expected  treasure,  but  the  mill,  their  only  support,  under- 
mined and  fallen.  Adieu  ! 


GOLDSMITH’S  LETTERS. 

TO  HIS  MOTHER  AT  BALLYMAHOtt. 

1751. 

My  dear  Mother  : If  you  will  sit  down  and  calmly  listen  to 
what  I say,  you  shall  be  fully  resolved  in  every  one  of  those  many 
questions  you  have  asked  me.  I went  to  Cork  and  converted  my 
horse,  which  you  prize  so  much  higher  than  Fiddleback,  into  cash, 
took  my  passage  in  a ship  bound  for  America,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  paid  the  captain  for  my  freight  and  all  the  other  expenses  of 
my  voyage.  But  it  so  happened  that  the  wind  did  not  answer  for 
three  weeks;  and  you  know,  mother,  that  I could  not  command  the 
elements.  My  misfortune  was  that  when  the  wind  served  I hap- 
pened to  be  with  a party  in  the  country,  and  my  friend  the  captain 
never  enquired  after  me,  but  set  sail  with  as  much  indifference  as  if 
I had  been  on  board.  The  remainder  of  my  time  I employed  in  the 
city  and  it  environs,  viewing  everything  curious ; and  you  know  no 
one  can  starve  while  he  has  money  in  his  pocket. 

Reduced,  however,  to  my  last  two  guineas,  I began  to  think  of 
my  dear  mother  and  friends  whom  I had  left  behind  me,  and  so 
bought  that  generous  beast,  Fiddleback,  and  bade  adieu  to  Cork 
with  only  five  shillings  in  my  pocket.  This,  to  be  sure,  was  but  a 
scanty  allowance  for  man  and  horse  towards  a journey  of  above  a 
hundred  miles ; but  I did  not  despair,  for  I knew  I must  find 
friends  on  the  road. 

I recollected  particularly  an  old  and  faithful  acquaintance  I made 
at  College,  who  had  often  and  earnestly  pressed  me  to  spend  a sum- 
mer with  him,  and  he  lived  but  eight  miles  from  Cork.  This  cir- 


258  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

cm  instance  of  vicinity  he  would  expatiate  on  to  me  with  peculiar 
emphasis.  “We  shall,”  says  he,  “enjoy  the  delights  of  both  city 
and  country,  and  you  shall  command  my  stable  and  my  purse.” 

However,  upon  the  way  I met  a poor  woman  all  in  tears,  who  told 
me  her  husband  had  been  arrested  for  a debt  he  was  not  able  to  pay, 
.and  that  his  eight  children  must  now  starve,  bereaved  as  they  were 
of  his  industry,  which  had  been  their  only  support.  I thought  my- 
self at  home,  being  not  far  from  good  friend’s  house,  and  therefore 
.parted  with  a moiety  of  all  my  store ; and  pray,  mother,  ought  I 
not  to  have  given  her  the  other  half-crown,  for  what  she  got  would 
be  of  little  use  to  her  ? However,  I soon  arrived  at  the  mansion  of 
my  affectionate  friend,  guarded  by  the  vigilance  of  a huge  mastiff, 
who  flew  at  me  and  would  have  torn  me  to  pieces  but  for  the  assist- 
ance of  a woman,  whose  countenance  was  not  less  grim  than  that  of 
the  dog;  yet  she  with  great  humanity  relieved  me  from  the  jaws  of 
this  Cerberus,  and  was  prevailed  on  to  carry  up  my  name  to  her 
master. 

Without  suffering  me  to  wait  long,  my  old  friend,  who  was  then 
recovering  from  a severe  fit  of  sickness,  came  down  in  his  night-cap, 
night-gown,  and  slippers,  and  embraced  me  with  the  most  cordial 
welcome,  showed  me  in,  and,  after  giving  me  a history  of  his  indis- 
position, assured  me  that  he  considered  himself  peculiarly  fortunate 
in  having  under  his  roof  the  man  he  most  loved  on  earth,  and. 
whose  stay  with  him  must,  above  all  things,  contribute  to  his  per- 
fect recovery.  I now  repented  sorely  I had  not  given  the  poor  wo- 
man the  other  half-crown,  as  I thought  all  my  bills  of  humanity 
would  be  punctually  answered  by  this  worthy  man.  I revealed  to 
him  my  whole  soul ; I opened  to  him  all  my  distresses ; and  freely 
owned  that  I had  but  one  half-crown  in  my  pocket ; but  that  now, 
like  a ship  after  weathering  out  the  storm,  I considered  myself  se- 
cure in  a safe  and  hospitable  harbor.  He  made  no  answer,  but 
walked  about  the  room  rubbing  his  hands  as  one  in  deep  study. 
This  I imputed  to  the  sympathetic  feelings  of  a tender  heart,  which 
increased  my  esteem  for  him,  and,  as  that  increased,  I gave  the 
most  favorable  interpretation  to  his  silence.  I construed  it  into 
delicacy  of  sentiment,  as  if  he  dreaded  to  wound  my  pride  by  ex- 
pressing his  commiseration  in  words,  leaving  his  generous  conduct 
. to  speak  for  itself. 

It  now  approached  six  o’clock  in  the  evening,  and  as  I had  eaten 
no  breakfast,  and  as  my  spirits  were  raised,  my  appetite  for  dinner 


Oliver  Goldsmith, 


259 


grew  uncommonly  keen.  At  length  the  old  woman  came  into  the 
room  with  two  plates,  one  spoon,  and  a dirty  cloth,  which  she  laid 
upon  the  table.  This  appearance,  without  increasing  my  spirits,  did 
not  diminish  my  appetite.  My  protectress  soon  returned  with  a 
small  bowl  of  sago,  a small  porringer  of  sour  milk,  a loaf  of  stale 
brown  bread,  and  the  heel  of  an  old  cheese  all  over  crawling  with 
mites.  My  friend  apologized  that  his  illness  obliged  him  to  live  on 
slops,  and  that  better  fare  was  not  in  the  house  ; observing,  at  the 
same  time,  that  a milk  diet  was  certainly  the  most  healthful ; and 
at  eight  o'clock  he  again  recommended  a regular  life,  declaring  that 
for  his  part  he  would  lie  down  ivith  the  lamb  and  rise  with  the  lark. 
My  hunger  was  at  this  time  so  exceedingly  sharp  that  I wished  for 
another  slice  of  the  loaf,  but  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed  without  even 
that  refreshment. 

This  Lenten  entertainment  I had  received  made  me  resolve  to  de- 
part as  soon  as  possible  ; accordingly  next  morning,  when  I spoke  of 
going,  he  did  not  oppose  my  resolution  ; he  rather  commended  my 
design,  added  some  very  sage  counsel  upon  the  occasion.  “ To  be 
sure,”  said  he,  “the  longer  you  stay  away  from  your  mother  the 
more  you  will  grieve  her  and  your  other  friends,  and  possibly  they 
are  already  afflicted  at  hearing  of  this  foolish  expedition  you  have 
made.”  Notwithstanding  all  this,  and  without  any  hope  of  soften- 
ing such  a sordid  heart,  I again  renewed  the  tale  of  my  distress,  and 
asking  “how  he  thought  I could  travel  above  a hundred  miles  upon 
one  half-crown  ? ” I begged  to  borrow  a single  guinea,  which  I 
assured  him  should  be  repaid  with  thanks.  “And  you  know,  sir,” 
said  I,  “it  is  no  more  than  I have  often  done  for  you.”  To  which 
he  firmly  answered,  “ Why,  look  you,  Mr.  Goldsmith,  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there  ; I have  paid  you  all  you  ever  lent  me,  and  this  sick- 
ness of  mine  has  left  me  bare  of  cash.  But  I have  bethought  my- 
self of  a conveyance  for  you  ; sell  your  horse  and  I will  furnish  you 
with  a much  better  one  to  ride  on.”  I readily  grasped  at  this  pro- 
posal, and  begged  to  see  the  nag  ; on  which  he  led  me  to  his  bed- 
chamber, and  from  under  the  bed  he  pulled  out  a stout  oak  stick. 
“Here  he  is,”  said  he ; “take  this  in  your  hand,  and  it  will  carry 
you  to  your  mother  with  more  safety  than  such  a horse  as  you  ride.’’ 
I was  in  doubt,  when  I got  it  into  my  hand,  whether  I should  not, 
in  the  first  place,  apply  it  to  his  pate  ; but  a rap  at  the  street  door 
made  the  wretch  fly  to  it,  and  when  I returned  to  the  parlor  he  in- 
troduced me,  as  if  nothing  of  the  kind  had  happened,  to  the  gentle- 


26o 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


man  who  entered,  as  Mr.  Goldsmith,  his  most  ingenious  and  worthy 
friend,  of  whom  he  had  so  often  heard  him  speak  with  rapture.  I 
could  scarcely  compose  myself  ; and  must  have  betrayed  indignation 
in  my  mien  to  the  stranger,  who  was  a counsellor-at-law  in  the 
neighborhood,  a man  of  engaging  aspect  and  polite  address. 

After  spending  an  hour,  he  asked  my  friend  and  me  to  dine  with 
him  at  his  house.  This  I declined  at  first,  as  I wished  to  have  no 
further  communication  with  my  hospitable  friend  ; but  at  the  soli- 
citation of  both  I at  last  consented,  determined  as  I was  by  two 
motives — one,  that  I was  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  looks  and  man- 
ner of  the  counsellor ; and  the  other,  that  I stood  in  need  of  a com- 
fortable dinner.  And  there,  indeed,  I found  everything  that  I 
could  wish,  abundance  without  profusion,  and  elegance  without 
affectation.  In  the  evening,  when  my  old  friend,  who  had  eaten 
very  plentifully  at  his  neighbor’s  table,  but  talked  again  of  lying 
down  with  the  lamb,  made  a motion  to  me  for  retiring,  our  generous 
host  requested  I should  take  a bed  with  him,  upon  which  I plainly 
told  my  old  friend  that  he  might  go  home  and  take  care  of  the 
horse  he  had  given  me,  but  that  I should  never  re-enter  his  doors. 
He  went  away  with  a laugh,  leaving  me  to  add  this  to  the  other 
little  things  the  counsellor  already  knew  of  his  plausible  neighbor. 

And  now,  my  dear  mother,  I found  sufficient  to  reconcile  me  to 
all  my  follies  ; for  here  I spent  three  whole  days.  The  counsellor 
had  two  sweet  girls,  his  daughters,  who  played  enchantingly  on 
the  harpsichord ; and  yet  it  was  but  a melancholy  pleasure  I felt  the 
first  time  I heard  them  ; for  that  being  the  first  time  also  that  either 
of  them  had  touched  the  instrument  since  their  mother’s  death,  I 
saw  the  tears  in  silence  trickle  down  their  father’s  cheeks.  I every 
day  endeavored  to  go  away,  but  every  day  was  pressed  and  obliged 
to  stay.  On  my  going,  the  counsellor  offered  me  his  purse,  with  a 
horse  and  servant  to  convey  me  home  ; but  the  latter  I declined, 
and  only  took  a guinea  to  bear  my  necessary  expenses  on  the  road. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


TO  ROBERT  BRYANTON,  ESQ,.,  AT  BALLYMAHON,  IRELAND. 

Edinburgh,  Sept.  26,  1753. 

My  Dear  Bob  : How  many  good  excuses  (and  you  know  I was 
ever  good  at  an  excuse)  might  I call  up  to  vindicate  my  past  shame- 
ful silence  ! I might  tell  how  I wrote  a long  letter  on  my  first 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


261 


coming  hither,  and  seem  vastly  angry  at  my  not  receiving  an  an- 
swer. I might  allege  that  business  (with  business  you  know  1 was 
always  pestered)  had  never  given  me  time  to  finger  a pen — but  I 
suppress  these  and  twenty  more  equally  plausible,  and  as  easily  in- 
vented, since  they  might  be  attended  with  a slight  inconvenience  of 
being  known  to  be  lies.  Let  me  then  speak  truth  ; an  hereditary 
indolence  (I  have  it  from  the  mother’s  side)  has  hitherto  prevented 
my  writing  to  you,  and  still  prevents  my  writing  at  least  twenty- 
five  letters  more  due  to  my  friends  in  Ireland.  No  turnspit  dog 
gets  up  into  his  wheel  with  more  reluctance  than  I sit  down  to 
write,  yet  no  dog  ever  loved  the  roast  meat  he  turns  better  than  I 
do  him  I now  address.  Yet  what  shall  I sayi.ow  I’ve  entered? 
Shall  I tire  you  with  a description  of  this  unfruitful  country,  where 
I must  lead  you  over  their  hills  all  brown  with  heath,  or  their  val- 
leys scarce  able  to  feed  a rabbit  ? Man  alone  seems  to  be  the  only 
creature  wno  has  arrived  to  the  natural  size  in  this  poor  soil.  Every 
part  of  the  country  presents  the  same  dismal  landscape.  No  grove 
nor  brook  lend  their  music  to  cheer  the  stranger  or  make  the  in- 
habitants forget  their  poverty;  yet  with  all  these  disadvantages, 
enough  to  call  him  down  to  humility,  a Scotchman  is  one  of  the 
proudest  things  alive.  The  poor  have  pride  ever  ready  to  relieve 
them;  if  mankind  should  happen  to  despise  them,  they  are  masters 
of  their  own  admiration,  and  that  they  can  plentifully  bestow  upon 
themselves. 

From  their  pride  and  poverty,  I take  it,  results  one  advantage 
this  country  enjoys — namely,  the  gentlemen  here  are  much  better 
bred  than  amongst  us.  No  such  characters  here  as  our  fox-hunters, 
and  they  have  expressed  great  surprise  when  I informed  them 
that  some  men  in  Ireland  of  £1,000  a year  spend  their  whole  lives 
in  running  after  a hare  and  drinking  to  be  drunk ; and  truly,  if 
such  a being,  equipped  in  his  hunting- dress,  came  among  a circle 
of  Scotch  gentry,  they  would  behold  him  with  the  same  astonish- 
ment that  a countryman  would  King  George  on  horseback. 

The  men  here  have  generally  high  cheek-bones,  and  are  lean  and 
swarthy,  fond  of  action,  dancing  in  particular.  Though  now  I 
mention  dancing,  let  me  say  something  of  their  balls,  which  are 
very  frequent  here.  When  a stranger  enters  the  dancing-hall,  he 
sees  one  end  of  the  room  taken  up  with  the  ladies,  who  sit  dismally 
in  a group  by  themselves.  On  the  other  end  stand  their  pensive 
partners  that  are  to  be,  but  no  more  intercourse  between  the  sexes 


262 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


than  there  is  between  two  countries  at  war  ; the  ladies,  indeed,  may 
ogle  and  the  gentlemen  sigh,  but  an  embargo  is  laid  on  any  closer 
commerce.  At  length,  to  interrupt  hostilities,  the  lady  directress 
or  intendant,  or  what  you  will,  pitches  on  a gentleman  and  lady  to 
walk  a minuet,  which  they  perform  with  a formality  that  ap- 
proaches to  despondence.  After  five  or  six  couple  have  thus 
walked  the  gauntlet,  all  stand  up  to  country  dances,  each  gentle- 
man furnished  with  a partner  from  the  aforesaid  lady  directress ; 
so  they  dance  much  and  say  nothing,  and  thus  concludes  our 
assembly.  I told  a Scotch  gentleman  that  such  profound  silence 
resembled  the  ancient  procession  of  the  Koman  matrons  in  honor 
of  Ceres,  and  the  Scotch  gentleman  told  me  (and  faith,  I believe 
he  was  right,)  that  I was  a very  great  pedant,  for  my  pains. 

Now  I am  come  to  the  ladies,  and  to  show  that  I love  Scotland  and 
everything  that  belongs  to  so  charming  a country,  I insist  on  it,  and 
will  give  him  leave  to  break  my  head  that  denies  it,  that  the  Scotch 
ladies  are  ten  thousand  times  handsomer  and  finer  than  the  Irish. 
To  be  sure,  now,  I see  your  sisters  Betty  and  Peggy  vastly  surprised 
at  my  partiality,  but  tell  them  flatly  I don’t  value  them,  or  their 

fine  skins,  or  eyes,  or  good  sense,  or  , a potato  ; for  I say  it,  and 

will  maintain  it,  and  as  a convincing  proof  (Pm  in  a very  great 
passion)  of  what  I assert,  the  Scotch  ladies  say  it  themselves.  But 
to  be  less  serious,  where  will  you  find  a language  so  pretty  become 
a pretty  mouth  as  the  broad  Scotch  ? and  the  women  here  speak  it 
in  its  highest  purity ; for  instance,  teach  one  of  their  young  ladies 
to  pronounce,  “ Whoar  wull  I gong?”  with  a becoming  wideness 
of  mouth,  and  I’ll  lay  my  life  they  will  wound  every  hearer. 

We  have  no  such  character  here  as  a coquette  ; but,  alas!  how  many 
envious  prudes  ! Some  days  ago  I walked  into  my  Lord  Kilcoubry’s 
(don’t  be  surprised,  my  lord  is  but  a glover),  when  the  Duchess  of 
Hamilton35  (that  fair  who  sacrificed  her  beauty  to  ambition,  and 
her  inward  peace  to  a title  and  gilt  equipage,)  passed  by  in  her 
chariot ; her  battered  husband,  or,  more  properly,  the  guardian  of 
her  charms,  sat  by  her  side.  Straight  envy  began,  in  the  shape  of  no 
less  than  three  ladies  who  sat  with  me,  to  find  faults  in  her  faultless 
form.  “ For  my  part,”  says  the  first,  “ I think  what  I always 
thought,  that  the  duchess  has  too  much  red  in  her  complexion.” 
“ Madam,  I’m  of  your  opinion,”  says  the  second;  “I  think  her 
race  has  a palish  cast  too  much  on  the  delicate  order.”  “ And 

31  Elizabeth  Gunning,  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world. 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


263 


let  me  tell  you,”  adds  the  third  lady,  whose  mouth  was  puckered 
up  to  the  size  of  an  issue,  “ that  the  duchess  has  fine  lips,  but  she 
wants  a mouth.”  At  this  every  lady  drew  up  her  mouth  as  if  going 
to  pronounce  the  letter  P. 

But  how  ill,  my  Bob,  does  it  become  me  to  ridicule  women  with 
whom  I have  scarce  any  correspondence.  There  are,  ’tis  certain, 
handsome  women  here ; and  Tis  as  certain  there  are  handsome  men 
to  keep  them  company.  An  ugly  and  a poor  man  is  society  for  him- 
self, and  such  society  the  world  lets  me  enjoy  in  great  abundance. 
Fortune  has  given  you  circumstances,  and  nature  a person  to  look 
charming  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair  world.  Nor  do  I envy,  my  dear 
Bob,  such  blessings,  while  I may  sit  down  and  laugh  at  the  world 
and  at  myself,  the  most  ridiculous  object  in  it.  But  I begin  to 
grow  splenetic,  and  perhaps  the  fit  may  continue  till  I receive  an 
answer  to  this.  I know  you  can’t  send  news  from  B[ally]mahon, 
but  such  as  it  is,  send  it  all ; everything  you  write  will  be  agreeable 
and  entertaining  to  me.  Has  George  Conway  put  up  a sign  yet? 
or*  John  Finecly  left  oft  drinking  drams  ? or  Tom  Allen  got  a new 
wig  ? But  I leave  to  your  own  choice  what  to  write.  While 
Oliver  Goldsmith  lives,  know  you  have  a friend. 

P.S. — Give  my  sincere  regards  (not  compliments,  do  you  mind,) 
to  your  agreeable  family,  and  give  my  service  to  my  mother  if  you 
see  her ; for,  as  you  express  it  in  Ireland,  I have  a sneaking  kind- 
ness for  her  still. 

Direct  to  me , Student  in  Physic,  in  Edinburgh. 


TO  THE  REV.  THOMAS  CONTARINE. 


Close  of  1753. 

My  Dear  Uncle  : After  having  spent  two  winters  in  Edin- 
burgh, I now  prepare  to  go  to  France  the  10th  of  next  February. 
I have  seen  all  that  this  country  can  exhibit  in  the  medical  way,  and 
therefore  intend  to  visit  Paris,  where  the  great  Mr.  Farhein,  Petit, 
and  Du  Hammel  de  Monceau  instruct  their  pupils  in  all  the  branches 
of  medicine.  They  speak  French,  and  consequently  I have  much 
the  advantage  of  most  of  my  countrymen,  as  I am  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  that  language,  and  few  who  leave  Ireland  are  so. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


26q 

Since  I am  upon  so  pleasing  a topic  as  self-applause,  give  me  leave 
to  say  that  the  circle  of  science  which  I have  run  through  before  1 
undertook  the  study  of  physic  is  not  only  useful,  but  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  making  of  a skilful  physician.  Such  sciences  en- 
large our  understanding  and  sharpen  our  sagacity  ; and  what  is  a 
practitioner  without  both  but  an  empiric,  for  never  yet  was  a dis- 
order found  entirely  the  same  in  two  patients.  A quack,  unable  to 
distinguish  the  particularities  in  each  disease,  prescribes  at  a ven- 
ture; if  he  finds  such  a disorder  may  be  called  by  the  general  name 
of  fever,  for  instance,  he  has  a set  of  remedies  which  he  applies  to 
cure  it,  nor  does  he  desist  till  his  medicines  are  run  out  or  his  patient 
has  lost  his  life.  But  the  skilful  physician  distinguishes  the  symp- 
toms, manures  the  sterility  of  nature  or  prunes  her  luxuriance  ; nor 
does  he  depend  so  much  on  the  efficacy  of  medicines  as  on  their 
proper  application.  I shall  spend  this  spring  and  summer  in  Paris, 
and  the  beginning  of  next  winter  go  to  Leyden.  The  great  Albinus 
is  still  alive  there,  and  Twill  be  proper  to  go,  though  only  to  have 
it  said  that  we  have  studied  in  so  famous  a university. 

As  I shall  not  have  another  opportunity  of  receiving  money  from 
your  bounty  till  my  return  to  Ireland,  so  I have  drawn  for  the  last 
sum  that  I hope  I shall  ever  trouble  you  for — ’tis  <£20.  And  now, 
dear  sir,  let  me  here  acknowledge  the  humility  of  the  station  in 
which  you  found  me ; let  me  tell  how  1 was  despised  by  most  and 
hateful  to  myself.  Poverty,  hopeless  poverty,  was  my  lot,  and 
Melancholy  was  beginning  to  make  me  her  own.  When  you — but  I 
stop  here  to  enquire  how  your  health  goes  on.  How  does  my  dear 
Cousin  Jenny,  and  has  she  recovered  her  late  complaint  ? How 
does  my  poor  Jack  Goldsmith  ? I fear  his  disorder  is  of  such  a na- 
ture as  he  won’t  easily  recover.  I wish,  my  dear  sir,  you  would 
make  me  happy  by  another  letter  before  I go  abroad,  for  there  I 
shall  hardly  hear  from  you.  I shall  carry  just  £33  to  France,  with 
good  store  of  clothes,  shirts,  etc.,  etc.,  and  that  with  economy  will 
serve. 

I have  spent  more  than  a fortnight  every  second  day  at  the  Duke 
of  Hamilton’s,  but  it  seems  they  like  me  more  as  a jester  than  as 
a companion,  so  I disdained  so  servile  an  employment ; ’twas  un- 
worthy my  calling  as  a physician. 

I have  nothing  new  to  add  from  this  country,  and  I beg,  dear  sir, 
you  will  excuse  this  letter,  so  filled  with  egotism.  I wish  you  may 


01 iver  Goldsm  ith.  265 

be  revenged  on  me  by  sending  an  answer  filled  with  nothing  bnt 
an  account  of  yourself.  I am,  dear  uncle,  your  most  devoted, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Give  my — how  shall  I express  it  ? Give  my  earnest  love  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lawder. 

TO  THE  REV.  THOMAS  CONTARINE. 

Leyden,  April  or  May,  1754. 

Dear  Sir  : I suppose  by  this  time  I am  accused  of  either  neglect 
or  ingratitude,  and  my  silence  imputed  to  my  usual  slowness  of 
writing.  But  believe  me,  sir,  when  I say  that  till  now  I had  not 
an  opportunity  of  sitting  down  with  that  ease  of  mind  which  writ- 
ing required.  You  may  see  by  the  top  of  the  letter  that  I am  at 
Leyden,  but  of  my  journey  hither  you  must  be  informed.  Some 
time  after  the  receipt  of  your  last  I embarked  for  Bordeaux,  on 
board  a Scotch  ship  called  the  St.  Andrews,  Captain  John  Wall, 
master.  The  ship  made  a tolerable  appearance,  and,  as  another  in- 
ducement, I was  let  to  know  that  six  agreeable  passengers  were  to 
be  my  company.  Well,  we  were  but  two  days  at  sea  when  a storm 
drove  us  into  a city  of  England  called  Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  We 
all  went  ashore  to  refresh  us  after  the  fatigue  of  our  voyage.  Seven 
men  and  I were  one  day  on  shore,  and  on  the  following  evening,  as 
we  were  all  very  merry,  the  room  door  bursts  open,  enter  a sergeant 
and  twelve  grenadiers  with  their  bayonets  screwed,  and  puts  us  all 
under  the  king’s  arrest.  It  seems  my  company  were  Scotchmen  in 
the  French  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland  to  enlist  soldiers  for 
the  French  army.  I endeavored  all  I could  to  prove  my  innocence  ; 
however,  I remained  in  prison  with  the  rest  a fortnight,  and  with 
difficulty  got  oft  even  then.  Dear  sir,  keep  this  all  a secret,  or  at 
least  say  it  was  for  debt,  for  if  it  were  once  known  at  the  university, 
I should  hardly  get  a degree.  But  hear  how  Providence  interposed 
in  my  favor ; the  ship  was  gone  on  to  Bordeaux  before  I got  from 
prison,  and  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne  and  every 
one  of  the  crew  were  drowned.  It  happened  the  last  great  storm. 
There  was  a ship  at  that  time  ready  for  Holland  ; I embarked,  and 
in  nine  days,  thank  my  God  ! I arrived  safe  at  Rotterdam,  whence 
I travelled  by  land  to  Leyden,  and  whence  I now  write. 

You  may  expect  some  account  of  this  country,  and  though  I am 
not  well  qualified  for  such  an  undertaking,  yet  shall  I endeavor  to 


266 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


satisfy  some  part  of  your  expectations.  Nothing  surprised  me  more 
than  the  books  every  day  published  descriptive  of  the  manners  of 
this  country.  Any  young  man  who  takes  it  into  his  head  to  pub- 
lish his  travels  visits  the  countries  he  intends  to  describe,  passes 
through  them  with  as  much  inattention  as  his  valet-de-cliambre, 
and  consequently,  not  having  a fund  himself  to  fill  a volume,  he 
applies  to  those  who  wrote  before  him,  and  gives  us  the  manners  of 
a country,  not  as  he  must  have  seen  them,  but  such  as  they  might 
have  been  fifty  years  before.  The  modern  Dutchman  is  quite  a 
different  creature  from  him  of  former  times  ; he  in  everything  imi- 
tates a Frenchman  but  in  his  easy,  disengaged  air,  which  is  the  re- 
sult of  keeping  polite  company.  The  Dutchman  is  vastly  ceremo- 
nious, and  is,  perhaps,  exactly  what  a Frenchman  might  have  been 
in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIY.  Such  are  the  better  bred.  But  the 
downright  Hollander  is  one  of  the  oddest  figures  in  nature  ; upon  a 
head  of  lank  hair  he  wears  a half-cocked,  narrow  hat,  Heed  with 
black  ribbon;  no  coat,  but  seven  waistcoats  and  nine  pairs  of 
breeches,  so  that  his  hips  reach  almost  up  to  his  arm-pits.  This 
well-clothed  vegetable  is  now  fit  to  see  company  or  make  love.  But 
what  a pleasing  creature  is  the  object  of  his  appetite  f Why,  she 
wears  a large  fur  cap  with  a deal  of  Flanders  lace,  and  for  every 
pair  of  breeches  he  carries  she  puts  on  two  petticoats. 

A Dutch  lady  burns  nothing  about  her  phlegmatic  admirer  but  his 
tobacco.  You  must  know,  sir,  every  woman  carries  in  her  hand  a 
stove  with  coals  in  it,  which,  when  she  sits,  she  snugs  under  her 
petticoats,  and  at  this  chimney  dozing  Strephon  lights  his  pipe.  I 
take  it  that  this  continual  smoking  is  what  gives  the  man  the  ruddy, 
healthful  complexion  he  generally  wears  by  draining  his  superfluous 
moisture,  while  the  woman,  deprived  of  this  amusement,  overflows 
with  such  viscidities  as  tint  the  complexion  and  give  that  pale- 
ness of  visage  which  low,  fenny  grounds  and  moist  air  conspire  to 
cause.  A Dutchwoman  and  Scotch  will  well  bear  an  opposition. 
The  one  is  pale  and  fat,  the  other  lean  and  ruddy ; the  one  walks 
as  if  she  were  straddling  after  a go-cart,  and  the  other  takes  too 
masculine  a stride.  I shall  not  endeavor  to  deprive  either  country 
of  its  share  of  beauty,  but  must  say  that  of  all  objects  on  this  earth 
an  English  farmer’s  daughters  is  most  charming.  Every  woman 
there  is  a complete  beauty,  while  the  higher  class  of  women  want 
many  of  the  requisites  to  make  them  even  tolerable.  Their  plea- 
sures here  are  very  dull,  though  very  various.  You  may  smoke,  you 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


267 


may  doze,  you  may  go  to  the  Italian  comedy,  as  good  an  amusement 
as  either  of  the  former.  This  entertainment  always  brings  in  Har- 
lequin, who  is  generally  a magician,  and,  in  consequence  of  his  dia- 
bolical art,  performs  a thousand  tricks  on  the  rest  of  the  persons  in 
the  drama,  who  are  all  fools.  I have  seen  the  pit  in  a roar  of 
laughter  at  this  humor,  when  with  his  sword  he  touches  the  glass 
from  which  another  was  drinking.  ’Twas  not  his  face  they  laughed 
at,  for  that  was  masked.  They  must  have  seen  something  vastly 
queer  in  the  wooden  sword  that  neither  I nor  yon,  sir,  were  you 
there,  could  see. 

In  winter,  when  their  canals  are  frozen,  every  house  is  forsaken, 
and  all  people  are  on  the  ice ; sleds  drawn  by  horses  and  skating 
are  at  that  time  the  reigning  amusements.  They  have  boats  here 
that  slide  on  the  ice,  and  are  driven  by  the  winds.  When  they 
spread  all  the  sails  they  go  more  than  a mile  and  a half  a minute, 
and  their  motion  is  so  rapid  the  eye  can  scarcely  accompany  them. 
Their  ordinary  manner  of  travelling  is  very  cheap  and  very  con- 
venient ; they  sail  in  covered  boats  drawn  by  horses,  and  in  these 
you  are  sure  to  meet  people  of  all  nations.  Here  the  Dutch  slum- 
ber, the  French  chatter,  and  the  English  play  at  cards.  Any  man 
who  likes  company  may  have  them  to  his  taste.  For  my  part,  I 
generally  detached  myself  from  all  society,  and  was  wholly  taken 
up  in  observing  the  face  of  the  country.  Nothing  can  equal  its 
beauty;  wherever  I turn  my  eye,  fine  houses,  elegant  gardens, 
statues,  grottos,  vistas,  presented  themselves ; but  when  you  enter 
their  towns  you  are  charmed  beyond  description.  No  misery  is  to 
be  seen  here  ; every  one  is  usefully  employed. 

Scotland  and  this  country  bear  the  highest  contrast.  There  hills 
and  rocks  intercept  every  prospect  ; here  ’tis  all  a continued  plain. 
There  you  might  see  a well-dressed  duchess  issuing  from  a dirty 
close  ; and  here  a dirty  Dutchman  inhabiting  a palace.  The  Scotch 
may  be  compared  to  a tulip  planted  in  dung ; but  I never  see  a 
Dutchman  in  his  own  house  but  I think  of  a magnificent  Egyptian 
temple  dedicated  to  an  ox.  Physic  is  by  no  means  here  taught  so 
well  as  in  Edinburgh  ; and  in  all  Leyden  there  are  but  four  British 
students,  owing  to  all  necessaries  being  so  extremely  dear  and  the  pro- 
fessors so  very  lazy  (the  chemical  professor  excepted)  that  we  don’t 
much  care  to  come  hither.  I am  not  certain  how  long  my  stay  here 
may  be  ; however,  I expect  to  have  the  happiness  of  seeing  you  at 
Kilmore,  if  I can,  next  March. 


268 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


Direct  to  me,  if  I am  honored  with  a letter  from  yon,  to  Madame 
Diallion’s,  at  Leyden. 

Thou  best  of  men,  may  Heaven  guard  and  preserve  you  and 
those  you  love. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


TO  THE  REV.  HENRY  GOLDSMITH,  AT  LOWFIELD,  NEAR  BALLYMORE, 
IN  WESTMEATH,  IRELAND. 

Dear  Sir:  Your  punctuality  in  answering  a man  whose  trade  is 
writing  is  more  than  I had  reason  to  expect,  and  yet  you  see  me 
generally  fill  a whole  sheet,  which  is  all  the  recompense  I can  make 
for  being  so  frequently  troublesome.  The  behavior  of  Mr.  Mills 
and  Mr.  Lawder  is  a little  extraordinary.  However,  their  answering 
neither  you  nor  me  is  a sufficient  indication  of  their  disliking  the 
employment  which  I assigned  them.  As  their  conduct  is  different 
from  what  I expected,  so  I have  made  an  alteration  in  mine.  I 
shall,  the  beginning  of  next  month,  send  over  two  hundred  and 
fifty  books,  which  are  all  that  I fancy  can  be  well  sold  among  you, 
and  I would  have  you  make  some  distinction  in  the  persons  who 
have  subscribed.  The  money,  which  will  amount  to  sixty  pounds, 
may  be  left  with  Mr.  Bradley,  as  soon  as  possible.  I am  not  cer- 
tain but  I shall  quickly  have  occasion  for  it.  I have  met  with  no 
disappointment  with  respect  to  my  East  Indian  voyage,  nor  are  my 
resolutions  altered  ; though,  at  the  same  time,  I must  confess  it 
gives  me  some  pain  to  think  I am  almost  beginning  the  world  at 
the  age  of  thirty-one.  Though  I never  had  a day’s  sickness  since  I 
saw  you,  yet  I am  not  that  strong  and  active  man  you  once  knew 
me.  You  scarcely  can  conceive  how  much  eight  years  of  disappoint- 
ment, anguish,  and  study  have  worn  me  down.  If  I remember 
right,  you  are  seven  or  eight  years  older  than  me,  yet  I dare  venture 
to  say  that  if  a stranger  saw  us  both  he  would  pay  me  the  honors  of 
seniority.  Imagine  to  yourself  a pale,  melancholy  visage,  with  two 
great  wrinkles  between  the  eye-brows,  with  an  eye  disgustingly 
severe,  and  a big  wig,  and  you  may  have  a perfect  picture  of  my 
present  appearance.  On  the  other  hand,  I conceive  you  as  perfectly 
sleek  and  healthy,  passing  many  a happy  day  among  your  own 
children,  or  those  who  knew  you  a child.  Since  I knew  what  it 
was  to  be  a man,  this  is  a pleasure  I have  not  known.  I have 
passed  my  days  among  a parcel  of  cool,  designing  beings,  and  have 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


269 


contracted  all  their  suspicions  manner  in  my  own  behavior.  I 
should  actually  be  as  unfit  for  the  society  of  my  friends  at  home  as 
I detest  that  which  I am  obliged  to  partake  of  here.  I can  now 
neither  partake  of  the  pleasure  of  a revel,  nor  contribute  to  raise 
its  jollity.  I can  neither  laugh  nor  drink,  have  contracted  a hesi- 
tating, disagreeable  manner  of  speaking,  and  a visage  that  looks  ill- 
nature  itself;  in  short,  I have  thought  myself  into  a settled  melan- 
choly, and  an  utter  disgust  of  all  that  life  brings  with  it.  Whence 
this  romantic  turn  that  all  our  family  arc  possessed  with  ? Whence 
this  love  for  every  place  and  every  country  but  that  in  which  we 
reside  ? for  every  occupation  but  our  own  ? this  desire  of  fortune, 
and  yet  this  eagerness  to  dissipate  ? I perceive,  my  dear  sir,  that  I 
am  at  intervals  for  indulging  this  splenetic  manner,  and  following 
my  own  taste,  regardless  of  yours. 

The  reasons  you  have  given  me  for  breeding  up  your  son  as  a 
scholar  are  judicious  and  convincing.  I should,  however,  be  glad 
to  know  for  what  particular  profession  he  is  designed.  If  he  be 
assiduous  and  divested  of  strong  passions  (for  passions  in  youth  al- 
ways lead  to  pleasure)  he  may  do  very  well  in  your  college ; for  it 
must  be  owned  that  the  industrious  poor  have  good  encouragement 
there,  perhaps  better  than  in  any  other  in  Europe.  But  if  he  has 
ambition,  strong  passions,  and  an  exquisite  sensibility  of  contempt, 
do  not  send  him  there,  unless  you  have  no  other  trade  for  him  ex- 
cept your  own.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  how  much  may  be  done 
by  a proper  education  at  home.  A boy,  for  instance,  wTho  under- 
stands perfectly  well  Latin,  French,  arithmetic,  and  the  principles 
of  the  civil  law,  and  can  write  a fine  hand,  has  an  education  that 
may  qualify  him  for  any  undertaking.  And  these  parts  of  learning 
should  be  carefully  inculcated,  let  him  be  designed  for  whatever 
calling  he  will. 

Above  all  things,  let  him  never  touch  a romance  or  novel;  those 
paint  beauty  in  colors  more  charming  than  nature,  and  describe 
happiness  that  man  never  tastes.  How  delusive,  how  destructive 
are  those  pictures  of  consummate  bliss  ! They  teach  the  youthful 
mind  to  sigh  after  beauty  and  happiness  which  never  existed ; to 
despise  the  little  good  which  fortune  has  mixed  in  our  cup,  by 
expecting  more  than  she  ever  gave  ; and,  in  general,  take  the  word 
of  a man  who  has  seen  the  world,  and  who  has  studied  human 
nature  more  by  experience  than  precept.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
that  books  teach  us  very  little  of  the  world.  The  greatest  merit  in 


2 JO 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


a state  of  poverty  would  only  serve  to  make  the  possessor  ridiculous 
— may  distress,  but  cannot  relieve  him.  Frugality,  and  even  avar- 
ice, in  the  lower  orders  of  mankind,  are  true  ambition.  These 
afford  the  only  ladder  for  the  poor  to  rise  to  preferment.  Teach, 
then,  my  dear  sir,  to  your  son  thrift  and  economy.  Let  his  poor, 
wandering  uncle’s  example  be  placed  before  his  eyes.  I had  learned 
from  books  to  be  disinterested  and  generous  before  I was  taught 
from  experience  the  necessity  of  being  prudent.  I had  contracted 
the  habits  and  notions  of  a philosopher  while  I was  exposing  myself 
to  the  insidious  approaches  of  cunning ; and  often  by  being,  even 
with  my  narrow  finances,  charitable  to  excess,  I forgot  the  rules  of 
justice,  and  placed  myself  in  the  very  situation  of  the  wretch  who 
thanked  me  for  my  bounty.  While  I am  in  the  remotest  part  of 
the  world,  tell  him  this,  and  perhaps  he  may  improve  from  my 
example.  But  I find  myself  again  falling  into  my  gloomy  habits  of 
thinking. 

My  mother,  I am  informed,  is  almost  blind.  Even  though  I had 
the  utmost  inclination  to  return  home,  under  such  circumstances  I 
could  not ; for  to  behold  her  in  distress,  without  a capacity  of  re- 
lieving her  from  it,  would  add  too  much  to  my  splenetic  habit. 
Your  last  letter  was  much  too  short;  it  should  have  answered  some 
queries  I had  made  in  my  former.  Just  sit  down  as  I do,  and  write 
forward  until  you  have  filled  all  your  paper;  it  requires  no  thought, 
at  least  from  the  ease  with  which  my  own  sentiments  rise  when 
they  are  addressed  to  you.  For,  believe  me,  my  head  has  no  share 
in  all  I write;  my  heart  dictates  the  whole.  Pray,  give  my  love  to 
Bod  Bryan  ton,  and  entreat  him,  from  me,  not  to  drink.  My  dear 
sir,  give  me  some  account  about  poor  Jenny  (his  younger  sister,  wrho 
had  married  unprosperously).  But  her  husband  loves  her ; if  so, 
she  cannot  be  unhappy. 

I know  not  whether  I should  tell  you — yet  why  should  I conceal 
those  trifles,  or,  indeed,  anything  from  you  ? — there  is  a book  of 
mine  will  be  published  in  a few  days,  the  life  of  a very  extraordi- 
nary man,  no  less  than  the  great  Voltaire.  You  know  already,  by 
the  title,  that  it  is  no  more  than  a catch-penny.  However,  I spent 
but  four  weeks  on  the  whole  performance,  for  which  I received 
twenty  pounds.  When  published,  I shall  take  some  method  of  con- 
veying it  to  you,  unless  you  may  think  it  dear  of  the  postage,  which 
may  amount  to  four  or  five  shillings.  However,  I fear  you  will  not 
find  an  equivalent  of  amusement.  Your  last  letter,  I repeat  it,  was 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


271 


too  short ; you  should  have  given  me  your  opinion  of  the  design  of 
the  heroi-comical  poem  which  I sent  you;  you  remember  I intended 
to  introduce  the  hero  of  the  poem  as  lying  in  a paltry  alehouse. 
You  may  take  the  following  specimen  of  the  manner,  which  I 
flatter  myself  is  quite  original.  The  room  in  which  he  lies  may  be 
described  somewhat  this  way: 

The  window,  patched  with  paper,  lent  a ray 
That  feebly  show’d  the  state  in  which  he  lay. 

The  sandy  floor,  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  ; 

The  humid  wall,  with  paltry  pictures  spread  ; 

The  game  of  goose  was  there  exposed  to  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew  ; 

The  seasons,  fram’d  with  listing,  found  a place, 

And  Prussia’s  monarch  show'd  his  lamp-blaek  face. 

The  morn  was  cold  ; he  views  with  keen  desire 
A rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a fire. 

An  unpaid  reck’ning  on  the  freeze  was  scor’d, 

And  five  crack’d  teacups  dress’d  the  chimney  board. 

And  now  imagine,  after  his  soliloquy,  the  landlord  to  make  his 
appearance,  in  order  to  dun  him  for  the  reckoning : 

Not  with  that  face,  so  servile  and  so  gay. 

That  welcomes  every  stranger  that  can  pay, 

With  sulky  eye  he  smoak’d  the  patient  man, 

Then  pull’d  his  breeches  tight,  and  thus  began,  etc. 

All  this  is  taken,  you  see,  from  nature.  It  is  a good  remark  of 
Montaigne’s,  that  the  wisest  men  often  have  friends  with  whom 
they  do  not  care  how  much  they  play  the  fool.  Take  my  present 
follies  as  instances  of  regard.  Poetry  is  a much  easier  and  more 
agreeable  species  of  composition  than  prose ; and  could  a man  live 
by  it,  it  were  not  unpleasant  enjoyment  to  be  a poet.  I am  resolved 
to  leave  no  space,  though  I should  fill  it  up  only  by  telling  you, 
what  you  very  well  know  already — I mean  that  I am  your  most 
affectionate  friend  and  brother, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


TO  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS. 

My  Dear  Friend  : We  had  a very  quick  passage  from  Dover  to 
Calais,  which  we  performed  in  three  hours  and  twenty  minutes,  all 
of  us  extremely  sea-sick,  which  must  necessarily  have  happened,  as 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


my  machine  to  prevent  sea-sickness  was  not  completed.  We  were 
glad  to  leave  Dover,  because  we  hated  to  be  imposed  upon ; so  were 
in  high  spirits  at  coming  to  Calais,  where  we  were  told  that  a 
little  money  would  go  a great  way.  Upon  landing  two  little  trunks, 
which  was  all  we  carried  with  us,  we  were  surprised  to  see  fourteen 
or  fifteen  fellows  all  running  down  to  the  ship  to  lay  their  hands 
upon  them  ; four  got  under  each  trunk,  the  rest  surrounded  and 
held  the  hasps,  and  in  this  manner  our  little  baggage  was  con- 
ducted, with  a kind  of  funeral  solemnity,  till  it  was  safely  lodged 
at  the  Custom-House.  We  were  well  enough  pleased  with  the  peo- 
ple’s civility  till  they  came  to  be  paid,  when  every  creature  that  had 
the  happiness  of  but  touching  our  trunks  with  their  fingers  ex- 
pected sixpence,  and  had  so  pretty,  civil  a manner  of  demanding  it 
that  there  was  no  refusing  them.  When  we  had  done  with  the 
porters,  we  had  next  to  speak  with  the  Custom-House  officers,  who 
had  their  pretty,  civil  way  too.  We  were  directed  to  the  Hotel 
d’Angleterre,  where  a valet-de-place  came  to  offer  liis  service,  and 
spoke  to  me  ten  minutes  before  I once  found  out  that  he  was  speak- 
ing English.  We  had  no  occasion  for  his  services,  so  we  gave  him 
a little  money  because  he  spoke  English,  and  because  he  wanted  it. 
I cannot  help  mentioning  another  circumstance.  I bought  a new 
ribbon  for  my  wig  at  Canterbury,  and  the  barber  at  Calais  broke  it, 
in  order  to  gain  sixpence  by  buying  me  a new  one. 


TO  BEHCET  LANGTON,  ESQ.,  AT  LANGTON,  NEAR  SPILSBY,  IN 

LINCOLNSHIRE. 

Temple,  Brick  Court,  Sept.  7,  1771. 

My  Dear  Sir  : Since  I had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  last  I 
have  been  almost  wholly  in  the  country  at  a farmer’s  house,  quite 
alone,  trying  to  write  a comedy.  It  is  now  finished,  but  when  or 
how  it  will  be  acted,  or  whether  it  will  be  acted  at  all,  are  questions  I 
cannot  resolve.  I am,  therefore,  so  much  employed  upon  that  that 
I am  under  the  necessity  of  putting  off  my  intended  visit  to  Lincoln- 
shire for  this  season.  Reynolds  is  just  returned  from  Paris,  and  finds 
himself  now  in  the  case  of  a truant  that  must  make  up  for  his  idle 
time  by  diligence.  We  have  therefore  agreed  to  postpone  our  jour- 
ney till  next  summer,  when  we  hope  to  have  the  honor  of  waiting 
upon  Lady  Rothes  and  you,  and  staying  double  the  time  of  our  late 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


2 73 

intended  visit.  We  often  meet,  and  never  without  remembering 
you.  I see  Mr.  Beauclerc  very  often  both  in  town  and  country. 
He  is  now  going  directly  forward  to  become  a second  Boyle,  deep  in 
chemistry  and  physics.  Johnson  has  been  down  upon  a visit  to  a 
country  parson,  Doctor  Taylor,  and  is  returned  to  his  old  haunts  at 
Mrs.  Thrale’s.  Burke  is  a farmer,  en  attendant  a better  place,  but 
visiting  about  too.  Every  soul  is  a visiting  about  and  merry  but 
myself.  And  that  is  hard,  too,  as  I have  been  trying  these 
three  months  to  do  something  to  make  people  laugh.  There  have 
I been  strolling  about  the  hedges,  studying  jests  with  a most  tragi- 
cal countenance.  The  “ Natural  History  ” is  about  half  finished, 
and  I will  shortly  finish  the  rest.  God  knows  I am  tired  of  this 
kind  of  finishing,  which  is  but  bungling  work,  and  that  not  so 
much  my  fault  as  the  fault  of  my  scurvy  circumstances.  They  be- 
gin to  talk  in  town  of  the  Opposition’s  gaining  ground  ; the  cry  of 
liberty  is  still  as  loud  as  ever.  I have  published,  or  Davis  has  pub- 
lished for  me,  an  “ Abridgment  of  the  History  of  England,”  for 
which  I have  been  a good  deal  abused  in  the  newspapers  for  betray- 
ing the  liberties  of  the  people.  God  knows  I had  no  thought  for 
or  against  liberty  in  my  head,  my  whole  aim  being  to  make  up  a 
book  of  a decent  size  that,  as  Squire  Richards  says,  “ would  do  no 
harm  to  nobody.”  However,  they  set  me  down  as  an  arrant  Tory, 
and  consequently  an  honest  man.  When  you  come  to  look  at  any 
part  of  it,  you’ll  say  that  I am  a sour  Whig.  God  bless  you,  and, 
with  my  most  respectful  compliments  to  her  ladyship, 

I remain,  dear  sir,  your  most  affectionate, 

Humble  servant, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


SIR  PHILIP  FRANCIS , 


AND  THE  “ LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS.” 


“As  specimens  of  style,  the  “Letters  of  Junius”  are,  in  their  kind,  absolutely 
■perfect.” — Dr.  Hart. 

“ Perhaps  the  literature  of  no  country  in  the  world  can  offer  a finer  example 
of  intense,  unscrupulous,  yet  always  elegant  and  dignified  invective.” — Shaw. 


IR  PHILIP  FRANCIS  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  1740.  His 


father  was  a scholarly  man  and  an  able  and  versatile  writer. 
Young  Francis  was  educated  at  St.  Paul’s  School,  London.  While 
yet  in  his  sixteenth  year,  he  obtained  a government  position,  and 
in  1760  visited  Portugal  in  company  with  the  British  envoy.  On 
returning  to  London,  the  same  year,  Francis  was  appointed  to  a 
clerkship  in  the  War  Office.  He  resigned  this  position  in  1772. 
Two  years  subsequently  he  received  a lucrative  office  in  British 
India,  where  he  became  a member  of  the  Council  of  Bengal.  Here 
his  duties  brought  him  into  contact  with  that  disgrace  to  the  British 
name,  that  man  of  blood  and  violence,  Warren  Hastings.  Hastings 
was  Governor-General  of  India.  Francis,  like  a true  man,  opposed 
the  governor’s  rapacious  measures,  and  a bitter  controversy  ensued. 
It  ended  in  a duel.  Francis  was  wounded. 

Disgusted  with  the  state  of  affairs  in  India,  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land in  1781,  and  three  years  later  he  entered  the  English  Parlia- 
ment as  member  for  Yarmouth.  It  was  chiefly  through  the  efforts 
of  Francis  that  Warren  Hastings  was  impeached  in  1788.  He  was 
the  mainspring  in  the  famous  trial  that  followed.  He  supplied  the 
information  which  Burke  and  Sheridan  expanded  into  eloquent  ora- 
tions and  burning  invective.  In  1806  Sir  Philip  Francis  was 
knighted.  He  died  in  1818. 

Francis,  in  his  day,  was  conspicuous  as  a statesman  and  member 
of  the  British  Parliament ; and,  though  an  eloquent  and  effective 
speaker,  he  was  more  fluent  with  the  pen  than  with  the  tongue. 
His  real  fame,  however,  rests  on  the  connection  of  his  name  with 
that  immortal  collection  of  political  epistles — around  the  author- 
ship of  which  there  hung,  for  so  long  a time,  the  shadow  of  mys- 
tery— the  “ Letters  of  Junius.” 


274 


Sir  Philip  Francis. 


275 


THE  “ LETTERS  OF  JUKIUS.” 

These  “Letters”  were  published  in  the  Public  Advertiser  of  Lon- 
don, and  appeared  at  various  times  during  a period  of  three  years, 
the  first  bearing  the  (late  January  21, 1769,  and  the  last  of  January 
21,  1772.  They  number  sixty-nine,  the  majority  of  them  being- 
signed  “Junius.”  This  soon  became  the  most  famous  nom  de  plume 
in  literature.  The  letters  are  addressed  to  various  personages,  high 
and  low;  but  it  is  especially  the  Duke  of  Grafton  and  his  colleagues 
that  Junius  attacks  with  cutting  satire  and  merciless  severity.  The 
duke  was  Premier  of  England,  and  to  him  eleven  of  the  letters  were 
addressed.  The  thirty-fifth  letter  was  addressed  to  the  king.1  It 
concludes  with  these  bold  words  : “ The  prince  who  imitates  their 
[the  Stuarts’]  conduct  should  be  warned  by  their  example  ; and, 
while  he  plumes  himself  upon  the  security  of  his  title  to  the  crown, 
should  remember  that  as  it  was  acquired  by  one  revolution  it  may 
be  lost  by  another.” 

The  burning  words  that  fell  from  the  pen  of  J unius  startled  the 
British  nation.  All  read  them,  and  all  were  astonished.  These 
singular  epistles  contain  some  of  the  most  effective  invective  to  be 
found  in  literature.  Their  condensed  and  lucid  diction,  studied 
epigrammatic  sarcasm,  dazzling  metaphors,  and  fierce  and  haughty 
personal  attacks  arrested  the  attention  of  the  Government  and  of 
the  public.  Not  less  startling  was  the  immediate  and  minute  know- 
ledge which  they  evinced  of  court  secrets,  making  it  believed  that 
the  writer  moved  in  the  circle  of  the  court,  and  was  intimately  ac- 
quainted not  only  with  ministerial  measures  and  intrigues,  but  with 
every  domestic  incident.  They  exhibit  indications  of  rank  and  for- 
tune as  well  as  scholarship,  the  writer  affirming  that  he  was  “above 
a common  bribe  ” and  far  “ above  pecuniary  views.”2 

“ How  comes  this  Junius  to  have  broken  through  the  cobwebs  of 
the  law,”  said  Edmund  Burke  in  a speech  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, “ and  to  range  uncontrolled,  unpunished  through  the  land  ? 
The  myrmidons  of  the  court  have  been  long,  and  are  still,  pursuing 
him  in  vain.  They  will  not  spend  their  time  upon  you  or  me. 
No ; they  disdain  such  vermin  when  the  mighty  boar  of  the  forest 
that  has  broken  through  all  their  toils  is  before  them.  But  what 
will  all  their  efforts  avail  ? No  sooner  has  he  wounded  one  than 
he  lays  another  dead  at  his  feet ! ” 


1 George  III. 


2 Appleton's  “ American  Cyclopaedia,"  last  edition,  vol.  ix. 


276  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland 

“ Who  wrote  these  letters  ?”  was  the  question  asked  by  king,  and 
lord,  and  peasant.  It  was  a profound  secret.  Junius  was  a mys- 
tery ; not  more  so  was  the  “ Man  with  the  Iron  Mask.”  In  his 
dedication  of  his  letters  to  the  people  of  England  he  said  : “ I am 
the  sole  depository  of  my  secret,  and  it  shall  perish  with  me.” 

Did  it  “ perish  with  him  ” ? 

It  is  now  more  than  a century  since  the  last  of  these  famous  let- 
ters appeared  in  the  Public  Advertiser.  They  have  been  ascribed 
to  forty-two  different  writers,3  among  whom  were  Edmund  Burke, 
Henry  Flood,  Henry  Grattan,  Sir  William  Jones,  and  Sir  Philip 
Francis.  Over  a hundred  books  have  been  written  on  the  subject 
of  their  authorship.  But  it  may  now  be  considered  as  proved  that 
the  gifted  Irishman,  Sir  Philip  Frastcis,  was  Julius — that  keen, 
sarcastic  Junius,  from  whose  pen  flowed  a brilliant  stream  of  light- 
ning whose  flashes  frightened  lords  and  dukes,  and  the  thunder  of 
which  shook  the  very  Parliament  of  Great  Britain  ! 

The  first  attempt  to  fix  the  authorship  of  these  “ Letters”  upon  Sir 
Philip  Francis  was  made  in  1816  by  John  Taylor,  in  his  “Identity 
of  Junius  with  a Distinguished  Living  Character.”  Since  that 
time  his  claims  have  been  most  rigorously  examined,  and  each  new 
development  but  strengthens  the  evidence  that  Francis  and  Junius 
were  the  same  person.  Lord  Macaulay  said  that  “the  case  against 
Francis,  or,  if  you  please,  in  favor  of  Francis,  rests  on  coincidences 
sufficient  to  convict  a murderer.” 

A volume  appeared  in  1871  which  did  much  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion. It  was  entitled  “ The  Hand-writing  of  Junius  Professionally 
Investigated,”  by  Charles  Cliabot,  an  expert.  “Its  object,”  writes 
Dr.  Hart,  “is  to  prove  by  a minute  and  exhaustive  examination  of 
the  Junian  manuscripts  and  of  the  letters  of  Sir  Philip  Francis  that 
both  were  written  by  the  same  hand.  The  proof  is  of  the  strongest 
kind,  amounting  almost  to  a demonstration,  and  will  go  far  to  put 
this  vexed  question  at  rest.”  4 

Sir  Philip  Francis  was  but  twenty-nine  years  of  age  when  he 
began  these  famous  letters.  Doubtless  they  cost  him  great 
labor.  They  were  polished  to  the  utmost  brilliancy,  and  with  un- 
equalled dexterity  and  skill  they  inflicted  deep  and  envenomed 
wounds.  In  English  literature  they  hold  the  rank  of  a classic. 


3 See  Allibone’S  “ Dictionary  of  Authors,”  vol.  i. 

4 “ English  Literature,”  edition  of  1875.  See  Appleton’s  “ American  Cyclopaedia,”  last 
edition,  vol.  ix  , and  the  “Encyclopaedia  Britannica,”  vol.  x.,  Am.  ed. 


Sir  Philip  Francis. 


2 77 

“I  quote*  Junius  in  English,”  says  Mathias,  “ as  I would  quote 
Tacitus  or  Livy  in  Latin.”6  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that 
these  “Letters”  had  a great  popularity,  and  powerfully  promoted 
the  cause  of  civil  liberty. 


LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS. 

LETTER  TO  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OE  GRAFTON. 

February  14,  1770. 

My  Lord  : If  I were  personally  your  enemy,  I might  pity  and 
forgive  you.  You  have  every  claim  to  compassion  that  can  arise 
from  misery  and  distress.  The  condition  you  are  reduced  to  would 
disarm  a private  enemy  of  his  resentment,  and  leave  no  consolation 
to  the  most  vindictive  spirit,  but  that  such  an  object  as  you  are 
would  disgrace  the  dignity  of  revenge.  But  in  the  relation  you 
have  borne  to  this  country  you  have  no  title  to  indulgence,  and  if 
I had  followed  the  dictates  of  my  own  opinion,  I should  never  have 
allowed  you  the  respite  of  a moment.  In  your  public  character  you 
have  injured  every  subject  of  the  empire;  and  though  an  individual 
is  not  authorized  to  forgive  the  injuries  done  to  society,  he  is  called 
upon  to  assert  his  separate  share  in  the  public  resentment.  I submit- 
ted, however,  to  the  judgment  of  men  more  moderate,  perhaps  more 
candid,  than  myself.  For  my  own  part,  I do  not  pretend  to  under- 
stand those  prudent  forms  of  decorum,  those  gentle  rules  of  discre- 
tion, which  some  men  endeavor  to  unite  with  the  conduct  of  the 
greatest  and  most  hazardous  affairs.  Engaged  in  the  defence  of  an 
honorable  cause,  I would  take  a decisive  part.  I should  scorn  to 
provide  for  a future  retreat,  or  to  keep  terms  with  a man  who  pre- 
serves no  measures  with  the  public.  Neither  the  abject  submission 
of  deserting  his  post  in  the  hour  of  danger,  nor  even  the  sacred 6 
shield  of  cowardice  should  protect  him.  I would  pursue  him 
through  life,  and  try  the  last  exertion  of  my  abilities  to  preserve 
the  perishable  infamy  of  his  name,  and  make  it  immortal. 

What,  then,  my  Lord  ? Is  this  the  event  of  all  the  sacrifices  you 
have  made  to  Lord  Bute’s  patronage  and  to  your  own  unfortunate 
ambition  ? Was  it  for  this  you  abandoned  your  earliest  friendships, 
the  warmest  connections  of  your  youth,  and  all  those  honorable 

5 “Pursuits  of  Literature.” 

6 Sacro  tremuere,  timore— Every  coward  pretends  to  be  planet-struck. 


278  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 

engagements  by  which  you  once  solicited,  and  might  have  acquired, 
the  esteem  of  your  country  ? Have  you  secured  no  recompense  for 
such  a waste  of  honor  ? Unhappy  man  ! what  party  will  receive 
the  common  deserter  of  all  parties  ? Without  a client  to  flatter, 
without  a friend  to  console  you,  and  with  only  one  companion 
from  the  honest  house  of  Bloomsbury,  you  must  now  retire  into  a 
dreadful  solitude.  At  the  most  active  period  of  life  you  must  quit 
the  busy  scene,  and  conceal  yourself  from  the  world,  if  you  would 
hope  to  save  the  wretched  remains  of  a ruined  reputation.  The 
vices  operate  like  age,  bring  on  disease  before  its  time,  and  in  the 
mime  of  youth  leave  the  character  broken  and  exhausted. 

Yet  your  conduct  has  been  mysterious,  as  well  as  contemptible. 
Where  is  now  that  firmness,  or  obstinacy,  so  long  boasted  of  by  your 
friends  and  acknowledged  by  your  enemies  ? We  were  taught  to 
expect  that  you  would  not  leave  the  ruin  of  this  country  to  be  com- 
pleted by  other  hands,  but  were  determined  either  to  gain  a deci- 
sive victory  over  the  constitution  or  to  perish  bravely,  at  least, 
behind  the  last  dike  of  the  prerogative.  You  knew  the  danger,  and 
might  have  provided  for  it.  You  took  sufficient  time  to  prepare 
for  a meeting  with  your  Parliament  to  confirm  the  mercenary 
fidelity  of  your  dependents,  and  to  suggest  to  your  sovereign  a lan- 
guage suited  to  his  dignity,  at  least,  if  not  to  his  benevolence  and 
wisdom.  Yet,  while  the  whole  kingdom  was  agitated  with  anxious 
expectation  upon  one  great  point,  you  meanly  evaded  the  question, 
and,  instead  of  the  explicit  firmness  and  decision  of  a king,  gave  us 
nothing  but  the  misery  of  a ruined  7 grazier,  and  the  whining  piety 
of  a Methodist.  We  had  reason  to  expect  that  notice  would  have 
been  taken  of  the  petitions  which  the  king  had  received  from  the 
English  nation  ; and,  although  I can  conceive  some  personal  mo- 
tives for  not  yielding  to  them,  I can  find  none,  in  common  prudence 
or  decency,  for  treating  them  with  contempt.  Be  assured,  my 
Lord,  the  English  people  will  not  tamely  submit  to  this  unworthy 
treatment.  They  had  a right  to  be  heard,  and  their  petitions,  if 
not  granted,  deserved  to  be  considered.  Whatever  be  the  real  views 
and  doctrines  of  a court,  the  sovereign  should  be  taught  to  preserve 
some  forms  of  attention  to  his  subjects;  and,  if  he  will  not  redress 
their  grievances,  not  to  make  them  a topic  of  jest  and  mockery 
among  lords  and  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber.  Injuries  may  be 
atoned  for  and  forgiven,  but  insults  admit  of  no  compensation. 

7 There  was  something  wonderfully  pathetic  in  the  mention  of  the  horned  cattle. 


Sir  Philip  Francis . 


279 


They  degrade  the  mind  in  its  own  esteem,  and  force  it  to  recover 
its  level  by  revenge.  This  neglect  of  the  petitions  was,  however,  a 
part  of  your  original  plan  of  government ; nor  will  any  consequences 
it  lias  produced  account  for  your  deserting  your  sovereign  in  the 
midst  of  that  distress  in  which  you  and  your  new  friends 8 have  in- 
volved him.  One  would  think,  my  Lord,  you  might  have  taken 
this  spirited  resolution  before  you  had  dissolved  the  last  of  those 
early  connections  which  once,  even  in  your  own  opinion,  did  honor 
to  your  youth — before  you  had  obliged  Lord  Granby  to  quit  a ser- 
vice he  was  attached  to — before  you  had  discarded  one  Chancellor 
and  killed  another.  To  what  an  abject  condition  have  you  labored 
to  reduce  the  best  of  princes,  when  the  unhappy  man  who  yields  at 
last  to  such  personal  instance  and  solicitation  as  never  can  be  fairly 
employed  against  a subject,  feels  himself  degraded  by  his  com- 
pliance, and  is  unable  to  survive  the  disgraceful  honors  which  his 
gracious  sovereign  has  compelled  him  to  accept  ! He  was  a man  of 
spirit,  for  he  had  a quick  sense  of  shame,  and  death  has  redeemed 
his  character.  I know  your  Grace  too  well  to  appeal  to  your  feel- 
ings upon  this  event ; but  there  is  another  heart,  not  yet,  I hope, 
quite  callous  to  the  touch  of  humanity,  to  which  it  ought  to  be  a 
dreadful  lesson  forever.9 

How,  my  Lord,  let  us  consider  the  situation  to  which  you  have 
conducted,  and  in  which  you  have  thought  it  advisable  to  abandon, 
your  royal  master.  Whenever  the  people  have  complained,  and 
nothing  better  could  be  said  in  defence  of  the  measures  of  the 
Government,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  answer  us,  though  not  very 
fairly,  with  an  appeal  to  the  private  virtues  of  your  sovereign  : 
“Has  he  not,  to  relieve  the  people,  surrendered  a considerable  part 
of  his  revenue  ? Has  he  not  made  the  judges  independent  by  fix- 
ing them  in  their  places  for  life  ? ” My  Lord,  we  acknowledge  the 
gracious  principle  which  gave  birth  to  these  concessions,  and  have 
nothing  to  regret  but  that  it  has  never  been  adhered  to.  At  the 
end  of  seven  years  we  are  loaded  with  a debt  of  above  five  hundred 
thousand  pounds  upon  the  civil  list,  and  now  we  see  the  Chancellor 
of  Great  Britain  tyrannically  forced  out  of  his  office,  not  for  want 
of  abilities,  not  for  want  of  integrity,  or  of  attention  to  his  duty, 
but  for  delivering  his  honest  opinion  in  Parliament  upon  the  great- 


8 The  Bedford  party. 

9 The  most  secret  particular  of  this  detestable  transaction  shall  in  due  time  be  given 
to  the  public.  The  people  shall  know  what  kind  of  man  they  have  to  deal  with. 


2 So  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

est  constitutional  question  that  has  arisen  since  the  revolution.  We 
care  not  to  whose  private  virtues  you  appeal.  The  theory  of  such 
a government  is  falsehood  and  mockery;  the  practice  is  oppression. 
You  have  labored,  then  (though,  I confess,  to  no  purpose),  to  rob 
your  master  of  the  only  plausible  answer  that  ever  was  given  in  de- 
fence of  his  Government — of  the  opinion  which  the  people  had 
conceived  of  his  personal  honor  and  integrity.  The  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford was  more  moderate  than  your  Grace  ; he  only  forced  his  master 
to  violate  a solemn  promise  made  to  an  individual  ;10  but  you,  my 
Lord,  have  successively  extended  your  advice  to  every  political, 
every  moral  engagement  that  could  bind  either  the  magistrate  or 
the  man.  The  condition  of  a king  is  often  miserable ; but  it  re- 
quired your  Grace’s  abilities  to  make  it  contemptible.  You  will 
say,  perhaps,  that  the  faithful  servants  in  whose  hands  you  have 
left  him  are  able  to  retrieve  his  honor,  and  to  support  his  Govern- 
ment. You  have  publicly  declared,  even  since  your  resignation, 
that  you  approved  of  their  measures  and  admired  their  conduct, 
particularly  that  of  the  Earl  of  Sandwich.  What  a pity  it  is  that, 
with  all  this  appearance,  you  should  think  it  necessary  to  separate 
yourself  from  such  amiable  companions  ! You  forgot,  my  Lord, 
that,  while  you  are  lavish  in  the  praise  of  men  whom  you  desert, 
you  are  publicly  opposing  your  conduct  to  your  opinions,  and  de- 
priving yourself  of  the  only  plausible  pretence  you  had  for  leaving 
your  sovereign  overwhelmed  with  distress.  I call  it  plausible ; for, 
in  truth,  there  is  no  reason  whatsoever,  less  than  the  frowns  of  your 
master,  that  could  justify  a man  of  spirit  for  abandoning  his  post 
at  a moment  so  critical  and  important.  It  is  in  vain  to  evade  the 
question  ; if  you  will  not  speak  out,  the  public  have  a right  to 
judge  from  appearances.  We  are  authorized  to  conclude  that  you 
either  differed  from  your  colleagues,  whose  measures  you  still  affect 
to  defend,  or  that  you  thought  the  administration  of  the  king’s  af- 
fairs no  longer  tenable.  You  are  at  liberty  to  choose  between  the 
hypocrite  and  the  coward.  Your  best  friends  are  in  doubt  which 
way  they  shall  incline.  Your  country  unites  the  characters,  and 
gives  you  credit  for  them  both.  For  my  own  part,  I see  nothing 
inconsistent  in  your  conduct.  You  began  with  betraying  the  peo- 
ple ; you  conclude  with  betraying  the  king. 

In  your  treatment  of  particular  persons  you  have  preserved  the 
uniformity  of  your  character.  Even  Mr.  Bradshaw  declares  that 


10  Mr.  Stuart  McKenzie. 


Sir  Philip  Francis. 


281 


no  man  was  ever  so  ill  used  as  liimself.  As  to  the  provision  11  you 
have  made  for  his  family,  he  was  entitled  to  it  by  the  house  he 
lives  in.  The  successor  of  one  chancellor  might  well  pretend  to  be 
the  rival  of  another.  It  is  the  breach  of  private  friendship  which 
touches  Mr.  Bradshaw ; and,  to  say  the  truth,  when  a man  of  his 
rank  and  abilities  had  taken  so  active  a part  in  your  affairs,  he 
ought  not  to  have  been  let  down  at  last  with  a miserable  pension  of 
fifteen  hundred  pounds  a year.  Colonel  Luttrell,  Mr.  Onslow,  and 
Governor  Burgoyne  were  equally  engaged  with  you,  and  have  rather 
more  reason  to  complain  than  Mr.  Bradshaw.  These  are  men,  my 
Lord,  whose  friendship  you  should  have  adhered  to  on  the  same 
principle  on  which  you  deserted  Lord  Rockingham,  Lord  Chatham, 
Lord  Camden,  and  the  Duke  of  Portland.  We  can  easily  account 
for  your  violating  your  engagements  with  men  of  honor ; but  why 
should  you  betray  your  natural  connections  ? Why  separate  your- 
self from  Lord  Sandwich,  Lord  Gower,  and  Mr.  Rigby,  or  leave 
the  three  worthy  gentlemen  above  mentioned  to  shift  for  them- 
selves ? With  all  the  fashionable  indulgence  of  the  times,  this 
country  does  not  abound  in  characters  like  theirs  ; and  you  may 
find  it  a very  difficult  matter  to  recruit  the  black  catalogue  of 
your  friends. 

The  recollection  of  the  royal  patent  you  sold  to  Mr.  Hine  obliges 
me  to  say  a word  in  defence  of  a man  whom  you  have  taken  the 
most  dishonorable  means  to  injure.  I do  not  refer  to  the  sham 
prosecution  which  you  affected  to  carry  on  against  him.  On  that 
ground,  I doubt  not,  he  is  prepared  to  meet  you  with  tenfold  re- 
crimination, and  set  you  at  defiance.  The  injury  you  have  done 
him  affects  his  moral  character.  You  knew  that  the  offer  to  pur- 
chase the  reversion  of  a place,  which  has  heretofore  been  sold  under 
a decree  of  the  court  of  chancery,  however  impudent  in  his  situa- 
tion, would  no  way  tend  to  cover  him  with  that  sort  of  guilt  which 


11  A pension  of  £1,500  per  annum,  insured  upon  the  four  and  a half  per  cents  (he  was 
too  cunning  to  trust  to  Irish  security  for  the  lives  ©f  himself  and  sons.  This  gentle- 
man, who,  a very  few  years  ago,  was  clerk  to  a.  contractor  for  forage,  and  afterwards  ex- 
alted to  a petty  post  in  the  War-Office,  thought  it  necessary  (as  soon  as  he  was  appointed 
Secretary  to  the  Treasury)  to  take  that  groat  house  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields  in  which  the 
Earl  of  Northington  had  resided  while  he  was  Lord  High-Chancellor  of  Great  Britain. 
As  to  the  pension,  Lord  North  very  solemnly  assured  the  House  of  Commons  that  no 
pension  was  ever  to  well  deserved  as  Sir.  Eradshaw's.  N.  B — Lord  Camden  and  Sir  Jef- 
frey Amherst  are  not  near  so  well  provided  f:r  ; and  Sir  Edward  Hawke,  who  saved  the 
state,  retires  with  two  thousand  pounds  a year  on  the  Irish  establishment,  from  which 
he,  in  fact,  receives  less  than  Mr.  Bradshaw’s  pension. 


282 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland ’ 


you  wished  to  fix  upon  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  You  labored 
then,  by  every  species  of  false  suggestion,  and  even  by  publishing- 
counterfeit  letters,  to  have  it  understood  that  he  had  proposed 
terms  of  accommodation  to  you,  and  had  offered  to  abandon  his 
principles,  his  party,  and  his  friends.  You  consulted  your  own 
breast  for  a character  of  consummate  treachery,  and  gave  it  to  the 
public  for  that  of  Mr.  Vaughan.  I think  myself  obliged  to  do  this 
justice  to  an  injured  man,  because  I was  deceived  by  the  appear- 
ances thrown  out  by  your  Grace,  and  have  frequently  spoken  of  his 
conduct  with  indignation.  If  he  really  be,  what  I think  him, 
honest  though  mistaken,  he  will  be  happy  in  recovering  his  reputa- 
tion, though  at  the  expense  of  his  understanding.  Here  I see  the 
matter  is  likely  to  rest.  Your  Grace  is  afraid  to  carry  on  the  prose- 
cution. Mr.  Hine  keeps  quiet  possession  of  the  purchase,  and 
Governor  Burgoyne,  relieved  from  the  apprehension  of  refunding 
the  money,  sits  down  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  infamous  and 
contented. 

I believe,  my  Lord,  I may  now  take  my  leave  of  you  forever. 
You  are  no  longer  that  resolute  minister  who  had  spirit  to  support 
the  most  violent  measures,  who  compensated  for  the  want  of  good 
and  great  qualities  by  a brave  determination  (which  some  people 
admired  and  relied  on)  to  maintain  himself  without  them.  The 
reputation  of  obstinacy  and  perseverance  might  have  supplied  the 
place  of  all  the  absent  virtues.  You  have  now  added  the  last  nega- 
tive to  your  character,  and  meanly  confessed  that  you  are  destitute 
of  the  common  spirit  of  a man.  Betire,  then,  my  Lord,  and  hide 
your  blushes  from  the  world ; for,  with  such  a load  of  shame,  even 
Mack  may  change  its  color.  A mind  such  as  yours,  in  the  solitary 
hours  of  domestic  enjoyment,  may  still  find  topics  of  consolation. 
You  may  find  it  in  the  memory  of  violated  friendship,  in  the 
afflictions  of  an  accomplished  prince  whom  you  have  disgraced  and 
deserted,  and  in  the  agitations  of  a great  country,  driven,  by  your 
counsels,  to  the  brink  of  destruction. 

The  palm  of  ministerial  firmness  is  now  transferred  to  Lord 
North.  He  tells  us  so  himself,  and  with  the  plenitude  of  the  ore 
rotundo  ; 12  and  I am  ready  enough  to  believe  that,  while  he  can 
keep  his  place,  he  will  not  easily  be  persuaded  to  resign  it.  Your 
Grace  was  the  firm  minister  of  yesterday  ; Lord  North  is  the  firm 

12  This  eloquent  person  has  got  as  far  as  the  discipline  of  Demosthenes.  He  constantly 
speaks  with  pebbles  in  his  mouth  to  improve  his  articulation. 


Sir  Philip  Francis. 


283 


minister  of  to-day  ; to-morrow,  perhaps,  his  Majesty,  in  his  wis- 
dom, may  give  ns  a rival  for  you  both.  You  are  too  well  acquainted 
with  the  temper  of  your  late  allies  to  think  it  possible  that  Lord  North 
should  be  permitted  to  govern  this  country.  If  we  may  believe  com- 
mon fame,  they  have  shown  him  their  superiority  already.  Ilis  Ma- 
jesty is,  indeed,  too  gracious  to  insult  his  subjects  by  choosing  his  first 
minister  from  among  the  domestics  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford  ; that 
would  have  been  too  gross  an  outrage  to  the  three  kingdoms.  Their 
purpose,  however,  is  equally  answered  by  pushing  forward  this  un- 
happy figure,  and  forcing  it  to  bear  the  odium  of  measures  which 
they  in  reality  direct.  Without  immediately  appearing  to  govern, 
they  possess  the  power  and  distribute  the  emoluments  of  govern- 
ment as  they  think  proper.  They  still  adhere  to  the  spirit  of  that 
calculation  which  made  Mr.  Luttrell  representative  of  Middlesex. 
Far  from  regretting  your  retreat,  they  assure  us,  very  gravely,  that 
it  increases  the  real  strength  of  the  ministry.  According  to  this 
way  of  reasoning,  they  will  probably  ' grow  stronger  and  more 
flourishing  every  hour  they  exist ; for  I think  there  is  hardly  a day 
passes  in  which  some  one  or  other  of  his  Majesty’s  servants  does  not 
leave  them  to  improve  by  the  loss  of  his  assistance.  But,  alas  ! 
their  countenances  speak  a different  language.  When  the  members 
drop  off,  the  main  body  cannot  be  insensible  of  its  approaching 
dissolution.  Even  the  violence  of  their  proceedings  is  a signal  of 
despair.  Like  broken  tenants  who  have  had  warning  to  quit 
the  premises,  they  curse  the  landlord,  destroy  the  fixtures,  throw 
everything  into  confusion,  and  care  not  what  mischief  they  do  to 
the  estate.  Junius. 


LETTER  TO  LORD  NORTH. 

August  22,  1770. 

My  Lord  : Mr.  Luttrell’s  services  were  the  chief  support  and 
ornament  of  the  Duke  of  Grafton’s  administration.  The  honor  of 
rewarding  them  was  reserved  for  your  Lordship.  The  Duke,  it 
seems,  had  contracted  an  obligation  he  was  ashamed  to  acknow- 
ledge and  unable  to  acquit.  You,  my  Lord,  had  no  scruples.  You 
accepted  the  succession  with  all  its  encumbrances,  and  have  paid 
Mr.  Luttrell  his  legacy  at  the  hazard  of  ruining  the  estate. 

When  this  accomplished  youth  declared  himself  the  champion  of 
Government,  the  world  was  busy  enquiring  what  honors  or  emolu- 


284 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


merits  could  be  a sufficient  recompense  to  a young  man  of  his  rank 
and  fortune  for  submitting  to  mark  bis  entrance  into  life  with  the 
universal  contempt  and  detestation  of  his  country.  His  noble 
father  had  not  been  so  precipitate.  To  vacate  his  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment, to  intrude  upon  a country  in  which  he  had  no  interest  or 
connection,  to  possess  himself  of  another  man’s  right,  and  to  main- 
tain it  in  defiance  of  public  shame  as  well  as  justice,  bespoke  a de- 
gree of  zeal  or  of  depravity  which  all  the  favor  of  a pious  prince 
could  hardly  requite.  I protest,  my  Lord,  there  is  in  this  young 
man’s  conduct  a strain  of  prostitution  which,  for  its  singularity,  1 
cannot  but  admire.  He  has  discovered  a new  line  in  the  human 
character;  he  has  degraded  even  the  name  of  Luttrell,  and  gratified 
his  father’s  most  sanguine  expectations. 

The  Duke  of  Grafton,  with  every  possible  disposition  to  patronize 
this  kind  of  merit,  was  contented  with  pronouncing  Colonel  Lut- 
trell’s  panegyric.  The  gallant  spirit,  the  disinterested  zeal  of  the 
young  adventurer,  were  echoed  through  the  House  of  Lords.  His 
Grace  repeatedly  pledged  himself  to  the  House,  as  an  evidence  of 
the  purity  of  his  friend  Mr.  Luttrell’s  intentions,  that  he  had  en- 
gaged without  any  prospect  of  personal  benefit,  and  that  the  idea 
of  compensation  would  mortally  offend  him.13  The  noble  Duke 
could  hardly  be  in  earnest,  but  lie  had  lately  quitted  his  employ- 
ment and  began  to  think  it  necessary  to  take  some  care  of  his  repu- 
tation. At  that  very  moment  the  Irish  negotiation  was  probably 
begun.  Come  forward,  thou  worthy  representative  of  Lord  Bute, 
and  tell  this  insulted  country  who  advised  the  king  to  appoint  Mr. 
Luttrell  adjutant-general  to  the  army  in  Ireland.  By  what  man- 
agement was  Colonel  Cunninghame  prevailed  on  to  resign  his  em- 
ployment, and  the  obsequious  Gisborne  to  accept  of  a pension  for 
the  government  of  Kinsale  ?14  Was  it  an  original  stipulation  with 
the  Princess  of  Wales,  or  does  he  owe  his  preferment  to  your  Lord- 
ship’s  partiality,  or  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford’s  friendship  ? My 

13  He  now  says  that  his  great  object  is  the  rank  of  colonel,  and  that  he  will  have  it. 

14  This  infamous  transaction  ought  to  be  explained  to  the  public.  Colonel  Gisborne 
was  quartermaster-general  in  Ireland.  Lord  Townshend  persuaded  him  to  resign  to  a 
Scotch  officer,  one  Frazer,  and  gives  him  the  government  of  Kinsale.  Colonel  Cunning- 
hame was  adjutant-general  in  Ireland.  Lord  Townshend  offers  him  a pension  to  induce 
him  to  resign  to  Luttrell.  Cunninghame  treats  the  offer  with  contempt.  What  is  to  be 
done  ? Poor  Gisborne  must  move  once  more.  He  accepts  of  a pension  of  £500  a year  until 
a government  of  greater  value  shall  become  vacant.  Colonel  Cunninghame  is  made  Gov- 
ernor of  Kinsale  ; and  Luttrell,  at  last,  for  whom  the  whole  machinery  is  put  in  motion, 
becomes  adjutant-general,  and,  in  effect,  takes  the  command  of  the  army  in  Ireland. 


Sir  Philip  Francis. 


285 

Lord,  though  it  may  not  be  possible  to  trace  this  measure  to  its 
source,  we  can  follow  the  stream,  and  warn  the  country  of  its  ap- 
proaching destruction.  The  English  nation  must  be  roused  and 
put  upon  its  guard.  Mr.  Luttrell  has  already  shown  us  how  far  he 
may  be  trusted  whenever  an  open  attack  is  to  be  made  upon  the 
liberties  of  this  country.  I do  not  doubt  that  there  is  a deliberate 
plan  formed.  Your  Lordship  best  knows  by  whom.  The  corrup- 
tion of  the  legislative  body  on  this  side,  a military  force  on  the 
other,  and  then  fareicell  to  England!  It  is  "impossible  that  any 
minister  shall  dare  to  advise  the  King  to  place  such  a man  as  Lut- 
trell in  the  confidential  post  of  adjutant-general  if  there  were  not 
some  secret  purpose  in  view  which  only  such  a man  as  Luttrell  is 
fit  to  promote.  The  insult  offered  to  the  army  in  general  is  as 
gross  as  the  outrage  intended  to  the  people  of  England.  What ! 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Luttrell  adjutant-general  of  an  army  of  sixteen 
thousand  men  ! One  would  think  his  Majesty’s  campaigns  at 
Blackheath  and  Wimbledon  might  have  taught  him  better.  I can- 
not help  wishing  General  Harvey  joy  of  a colleague  who  does  so 
much  honor  to  the  employment.  But,  my  Lord,  this  measure  is  too 
daring  to  pass  unnoticed,  too  dangerous  to  be  received  with  in- 
difference or  submission.  You  shall  not  have  time  to  new  model 
the  Irish  army.  They  will  not  submit  to  be  garbled  by  Colonel 
Luttrell.  As  a mischief  to  the  English  Constitution  (for  he  is  not 
worth  the  name  of  enemy)  they  already  detest  him.  As  a boy,  im- 
pudently thrust  over  their  heads,  they  will  receive  him  with  in- 
dignation and  contempt.  As  for  you,  my  Lord,  who,  perhaps,  are 
no  more  than  the  blind,  unhappy  instrument  of  Lord  Bute  and  her 
Boyal  Highness  the  Princess  of  Wales,  be  assured  that  you  shall  be 
called  upon  to  answer  for  the  advice  which  has  been  given,  and 
either  discover  your  accomplices  or  fall  a sacrifice  to  their  security. 

Julius. 


LETTER  TO  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  LORD  MANSFIELD. 

November  14,  1770. 

My  Lord  : The  appearance  of  this  letter  will  attract  the  curi- 
osity of  the  public,  and  command  even  your  Lordship’s  attention. 
I am  considerably  in  your  debt,  and  shall  endeavor,  once  for  all,  to 
balance  the  account.  Accept  of  this  address,  my  Lord,  as  a pro- 


286 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


logue  to  more  important  scenes,  in  which  you  will  probably  be 
called  upon  to  act  or  sutler. 

You  will  not  question  my  veracity  when  I assure  you  that  it  has 
not  been  owing  to  any  particular  respect  for  your  person  that  I have 
abstained  from  you  so  long.  Besides  the  distress  and  danger  with 
which  the  press  is  threatened,  when  your  Lordship  is  party,  and 
the  party  is  to  be  judge,  I confess  I have  been  deterred  by  the  diffi- 
culty of  the  task.  Our  language  has  no  term  of  reproach,  the 
mind  has  no  idea  of  detestation,  which  has  not  already  been  happily 
applied  to  you,  and  exhausted.  Ample  justice  has  been  done,  by 
abler  pens  than  mine,  to  the  separate  merits  of  your  life  and  cha- 
racter. Let  it  be  my  humble  office  to  collect  the  scattered  sweets 
till  their  united  virtue  tortures  the  sense. 

Permit  me  to  begin  with  paying  a just  tribute  to  Scotch  sin- 
cerity wherever  I find  it.  I own  I am  not  apt  to  confide  in  the 
professions  of  gentlemen  of  that  country,  and  when  they  smile  I 
feel  an  involuntary  emotion  to  guard  myself  against  mischief.  With 
this  general  opinion  of  an  ancient  nation,  I always  thought  it  much 
to  your  Lordship’s  honor  that,  in  your  earlier  days,  you  were  but 
little  infected  with  the  prudence  of  your  country.  You  had  some 
original  attachments,  which  you  took  every  proper  opportunity  to 
acknowledge.  The  liberal  spirit  of  youth  prevailed  over  your  native 
discretion.  Your  zeal  in  the  cause  of  an  unhappy  prince  was  ex- 
pressed with  the  sincerity  of  wine  and  some  of  the  solemnities  of 
religion.15  This,  I conceive,  is  the  most  amiable  point  of  view  in 
which  your  character  has  appeared.  Like  an  honest  man,  you  took 
that  part  in  politics  which  might  have  been  expected  from  your 
birth,  education,  country,  and  connections.  There  was  something 
generous  in  your  attachment  to  the  banished  house  of  Stuart.  We 
lament  the  mistakes  of  a good  man,  and  do  not  begin  to  detest  him 
until  he  affects  to  renounce  his  principles.  Why  did  you  not  adhere 
to  that  loyalty  you  once  professed  ? Why  did  you  not  follow  the 
example  of  your  worthy  brother  ? 16  With  him  you  might  have 
shared  in  the  honor  of  the  Pretender’s  confidence  ; with  him  you 
might  have  preserved  the  integrity  of  your  character  ; and  England, 
I think,  might  have  spared  you  without  regret.  Your  friends  will 

16  This  man  was  always  a rank  Jacobite.  Lord  Ravensworth  produced  the  most  satis- 
factory evidence  of  his  having  frequently  drank  the  Pretender’s  health  on  his  knees. 

18  Confidential  secretary  to  the  late  Pretender.  This  circumstance  confirmed  the 
friendship  between  the  brothers. 


Sir  Philip  Francis . 


287 


say,  perhaps,  that,  although  you  deserted  the  fortune  of  your  liege 
lord,  you  have  adhered  firmly  to  the  principles  which  drove  his 
father  from  the  throne  ; that,  without  openly  supporting  the  per- 
son, you  have  done  essential  service  to  the  cause,  and  consoled  your- 
self for  the  loss  of  a favorite  family  by  reviving  and  establishing  the 
maxims  of  their  government.  This  is  the  way  in  which  a Scotch- 
man’s understanding  corrects  the  errors  of  his  heart.  My  Lord,  I 
acknowledge  the  truth  of  the  defence,  and  can  trace  it  through  all 
your  conduct.  I see  through  your  whole  life  one  uniform  plan  to 
enlarge  the  power  of  the  crown  at  the  expense  of  the  liberty  of  the 
subject.  To  this  object  your  thoughts,  words,  and  actions  have 
been  constantly  directed.  In  contempt  or  ignorance  of  the  common 
law  of  England,  you  have  made  it  your  study  to  introduce  into  the 
court  where  you  preside  maxims  of  jurisprudence  unknown  to  Eng- 
lishmen. The  Eoman  code,  the  law  of  nations,  and  the  opinion  of 
foreign  civilians  are  your  perpetual  theme  ; but  who  ever  heard  you 
mention  Magna  Charta  or  the  Bill  of  Eights  with  approbation  or 
respect  ? By  such  treacherous  arts  the  noble  simplicity  and  free 
spirit  of  our  Saxon  laws  were  first  corrupted.  The  Norman  con- 
quest was  not  complete  until  Norman  lawyers  had  introduced  their 
laws,  and  reduced  slavery  to  a system.  This  one  leading  principle 
directs  your  interpretation  of  the  laws,  and  accounts  for  your  treat- 
ment of  juries.  It  is  not  in  political  questions  only  (for  there  the 
courtier  might  be  forgiven),*but  let  the  cause  be  what  it  may,  your 
understanding  is  equally  011  the  rack,  either  to  contract  the  power 
of  the  jury  or  to  mislead  their  judgment.  For  the  truth  of  this 
assertion  I appeal  to  the  doctrine  you  delivered  in  Lord  Grosve- 
nor’s  cause.  An  action  for  criminal  conversation  being  brought  by 
a peer  against  a prince  of  the  blood,  you  were  daring  enough  to  tell 
the  jury  that,  in  fixing  the  damages,  they  were  to  pay  no  regard  to 
the  quality  or  fortune  of  the  parties  ; that  it  was  a trial  between  A 
and  B ; that  they  were  to  consider  the  offence  in  a moral  light  only, 
and  give  no  greater  damages  to  a peer  of  the  realm  than  to  the 
meanest  mechanic.  I shall  not  attempt  to  refute  a doctrine  which, 
if  it  was  meant  for  law,  carries  falsehood  and  absurdity  upon  the 
face  of  it ; but  if  it  was  meant  for  a declaration  of  your  political 
creed,  is  clear  and  consistent.  Under  an  arbitrary  government  all 
ranks  and  distinctions  are  confounded  ; the  honor  of  a nobleman  is 
no  more  considered  than  the  reputation  of  a peasant ; for,  with  dif- 
ferent liveries,  they  are  equally  slaves. 


288 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


Even  in  matters  of  private  property  we  see  the  same  bias  and  in- 
clination to  depart  from  the  decisions  of  your  predecessors,  which 
you  certainly  ought  to  receive  as  evidence  of  the  common  law.  In- 
stead of  those  certain  positive  rules  by  which  the  judgment  of  a 
court  of  law  should  invariably  he  determined,  you  have  fondly  in- 
troduced your  own  unsettled  notions  of  equity  and  substantial  jus- 
tice. Decisions  given  upon  such  principles  do  not  alarm  the  public 
so  much  as  they  ought,  because  the  consequence  and  tendency  of 
each  particular  instance  is  not  observed  or  regarded.  In  the  mean- 
time the  practice  gains  ground,  the  Court  of  King’s  Bench  becomes 
a court  of  equity,  and  the  judge,  instead  of  consulting  strictly  the 
law  of  the  land,  refers  only  to  the  wisdom  of  the  court,  and  to  the 
purity  of  his  own  conscience.  The  name  of  Mr.  Justice  Yates  will 
naturally  revive  in  your  mind  some  of  those  emotions  of  fear  and 
detestation  with  which  you  always  beheld  him.  That  great  lawyer, 
that  honest  man,  saw  your  whole  conduct  in  the  light  that  I do. 
After  years  of  ineffectual  resistance  to  the  pernicious  principle  in- 
troduced by  your  Lordship,  and  uniformly  supported  by  humble 
friends  upon  the  bench,  he  determined  to  quit  a court  whose  pro- 
ceedings and  decisions  he  could  neither  assent  to  with  honor  nor 
oppose  with  success. 

The  injustice  done  to  an  individual 17  is  sometimes  of  service  to 
the  public.  Facts  are  apt  to  alarm  us  more  than  the  most  danger- 
ous principles.  The  sufferings  and  firmness  of  a printer  have  roused 
the  public  attention.  You  knew  and  felt  that  your  conduct  would 
not  bear  a parliamentary  enquiry ; and  you  hoped  to  escape  it  by 
the  meanest,  the  basest  sacrifice  of  dignity  and  consistency  that  ever 
was  made  by  a great  magistrate.  Where  was  your  firmness,  where 
was  that  vindictive  spirit,  of  which  we  have  seen  so  many  examples, 
when  a man  so  inconsiderable  as  Bingley  could  force  you  to  confess, 
in  the  face  of  this  country,  that,  for  two  years  together,  you  had 
illegally  deprived  an  English  subject  of  his  liberty,  and  that  he  had 
triumphed  over  you  at  last  ? Yet,  I own,  my  Lord,  that  yours  is 
not  an  uncommon  character.  Women,  and  men  like  women,  are 
timid,  vindictive,  and  irresolute.  Their  passions  counteract  each 
other,  and  make  the  same  creature  at  one  moment  hateful,  at  an- 
other contemptible.  • I fancy,  my  Lord,  some  time  will  elapse  before 

17  The  oppression  of  an  obscure  individual  gave  birth  to  the  famous  Habeas  Corpus 
Act  of  31  Car.  II.  which  is  frequently  considered  as  another  Magna  Charta  of  this  king- 
dom.—“ Blackstone  ” iii.  135. 


Sir  Philip  Francis . 289 

you  venture  to  commit  another  Englishman  for  refusing  to  answer 
interrogatories. 18 

The  doctrine  you  have  constantly  delivered  in  cases  of  libel  is 
another  powerful  evidence  of  a settled  plan  to  contract  the  legal 
power  of  juries,  and  to  draw  questions,  inseparable  from  fact,  within 
the  arbitrium  of  the  court.  Here,  my  Lord,  you  have  fortune  on 
your  side.  When  you  invade  the  province  of  the  jury,  in  matter  of 
libel,  you  in  effect  attack  the  liberty  of  the  press,  and  with  a 
single  stroke  wound  two  of  your  greatest  enemies.  In  some  in- 
stances you  have  succeeded,  because  jurymen  are  too  often  ignorant 
of  their  own  rights,  and  too  apt  to  be  awed  by  the  authority  of  a 
chief -justice.  In  other  criminal  prosecutions  the  malice  of  the  de- 
sign is  confessedly  as  much  the  subject  of  consideration  to  a jury  as 
the  certainty  of  the  fact.  If  a different  doctrine  prevails  in  the  case 
of  libels,  why  should  it  not  extend  to  all  criminal  cases  ? Why  not 
to  capital  offences  ? I see  no  reason  (and  dare  say  you  will  agree 
with  me,  that  there  is  no  good  one)  why  the  life  of  the  subject 
should  be  better  protected  against  you  than  his  liberty  or  property. 
Why  should  you  enjoy  the  full  power  of  pillory,  fine,  and  imprison- 
ment, and  not  be  indulged  with  hanging  or  transportation  ? With 
your  Lordship’s  fertile  genius  and  merciful  disposition,  I can  con- 
ceive such  an  exercise  of  the  power  you  have  as  could  hardly  be 
aggravated  by  that  which  you  have  not. 

But,  my  Lord,  since  you  have  labored  (and  not  unsuccessfully)  to 
destroy  the  substance  of  the  trial,  why  should  you  suffer  the  form  of 
the  verdict  to  remain  ? Wrhy  force  twelve  honest  men,  in  palpable 
violation  of  their  oaths,  to  pronounce  their  fellow-subject  a guilty 
man,  when,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  you  forbid  their  enquiring 
into  the  only  circumstance  which,  in  the  eye  of  law  and  reason, 
constitutes  guilt — the  malignity  or  innocence  of  his  intentions  ? 
But  I understand  your  Lordship.  If  you  could  succeed  in  making 
the  trial  by  jury  useless  and  ridiculous,  you  might  then,  with  greater 
safety,  introduce  a bill  into  Parliament  for  enlarging  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  the  court,  and  extending  your  favorite  trial  by  interrogato- 


Bingley  was  committed  for  contempt  in  not  submitting  to  be  examined.  He  lay  in 
prison  two  years,  until  the  Crown  thought  the  matter  might  occasion  some  serious  com- 
plaint, and  therefore  he  was  let  out,  in  the  same  contumelious  state  he  bad  been  put  in, 
with  all  his  sins  about  him,  unannointed  and  unanealed.  There  was  much  coquetry  be- 
tween the  court  and  the  attorney-general  about  who  should  undergo  the  ridicule  of 
letting  him  escape.  Vide  another  <l  Letter  to  Almon,”  p,  189. 


2 go  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

ries  to  every  question  in  which  the  life  or  liberty  of  an  Englishman 
is  concerned.19 

Your  charge  to  the  jury  in  the  prosecution  against  Almon  and 
Woodfall  contradicts  the  highest  legal  authorities,  as  well  as  the 
plainest  dictates  of  reason.  In  Miller’s  case,  and  still  more  expressly 
in  that  of  Baldwin,  you  have  proceeded  a step  farther,  and  grossly 
^contradicted  yourself.  You  may  know,  perhaps,  though  I do  not 
’mean  to  insult  you  by  an  appeal  to  your  experience,  that  the  lan- 
guage of  truth  is  uniform  and  consistent.  To  depart  from  it  safely 
requires  memory  and  discretion.  In  the  last  two  trials  your  charge 
to  the  jury  began,  as  usual,  with  assuring  them  that  they  had  no- 
thing to  do  with  the  law  ; that  they  were  to  find  the  bare  fact,  and 
not  concern  themselves  about  the  legal  inferences  drawn  from  it,  or 
the  degree  of  the  defendant’s  guilt.  Thus  far  you  were  consistent 
with  your  former  practice.  But  how  will  you  account  for  the  con- 
clusion ? You  told  the  jury  that  “ if,  after  all,  they  would  take 
upon  themselves  to  determine  the  law,  they  might  do  it,  but  they 
must  be  very  sure  that  they  determined  according  to  law ; for  it 
touched  their  consciences,  and  they  acted  at  their  peril.”  If  I un- 
derstand your  first  proposition,  you  mean  to  affirm  that  the  jury 
were  not  competent  judges  of  the  law  in  the  criminal  case  of  a libel ; 
that  it  did  not  fall  within  their  jurisdiction ; and  that  with  respect 
to  them  the  malice  or  innocence  of  the  defendant’s  intentions  would 
be  a question  coram  non  judice.  But  the  second  proposition  clears 
away  your  own  difficulties  and  restores  the  jury  to  all  their  judicial 
capacities. 20  You  make  the  competence  of  the  court  to  depend 
upon  the  legality  of  the  decision.  In  the  first  instance  you  deny 
the  power  absolutely  ; in  the  second  you  admit  the  power,  provided 
it  be  legally  exercised.  Now,  my  Lord,  without  pretending  to  re* 
concile  the  distinctions  of  Westminster  Hall  with  the  simple  infor- 

19  The  philosophical  poet  doth  notably  describe  the  damnable  and  damned  proceedings 
of  the  judge  of  ball : 

“ Glnossius  hsec  Radamanthus  habet  durissima  regna, 

Castigatque,  auditque  dolos,  subigitque  foteri .” 

First  he  punisheth  and  then  he  heareth,  and  lastly  compelleth  to  confess,  and  makes  and 
mars  laws  at  his  pleasure,  like  as  the  Centurion,  in  the  holy  history,  did  to  St.  Paul ; 
for  the  text  saith  : “ Centurio  apprehendi  Paulum  jussit,  et  se  catenis  ligari,  et  tunc  in - 
terrogabat  quis  fuisset,  et  quid  fecisset.”  But  good  judges  and  justices  abhor  those 
courses.  Coke , 2 Inst.  53. 

20  Directly  the  reverse  of  the  doctrine  he  constantly  maintained  in  the  House  of  Lords 
and  elsewhere  upon  the  decision  of  the  Middlesex  election.  He  invariably  asserted  that 
the  decision  must  be  legal  because  the  court  was  competent,  and  never  could  be  prevailed 
on  to  enter  farther  into  the  question. 


Sir  Philip  Francis . 


291 


mation  of  common  sense,  or  the  integrity  of  fair  argument,  I shall 
be  understood  by  your  Lordship  when  I assert  that  if  a jury,  or 
any  other  court  of  judicature  (for  jurors  are  judges),  have  no  right 
to  enter  into  a cause  or  question  of  law,  it  signifies  nothing  whether 
their  decisions  be  or  be  not  according  to  law.  Their  decision  is,  in 
itself,  a mere  nullity ; the  parties  are  not  bound  to  submit  to  it ; 
and  if  the  jury  run  any  risk  of  punishment,  it  is  not  for  pronounc- 
ing a corrupt  or  illegal  verdict,  but  for  the  illegality  of  meddling 
with  a point  on  which  they  have  no  legal  authority  to  decide.21 

I cannot  quit  this  subject  without  reminding  your  Lordship  of 
the  name  of  Mr.  Benson.  Without  offering  any  legal  objection,  you 
ordered  a special  juryman  to  be  set  aside  in  a cause  where  the  King 
was  prosecutor.  The  novelty  of  the  fact  required  explanation. 
Will  you  condescend  to  tell  the  world  by  what  law  or  custom  you 
were  authorized  to  make  a peremptory  challenge  of  a juryman  ? 
The  parties,  indeed,  have  this  power,  and  perhaps  your  Lordship, 
having  accustomed  yourself  to  unite  the  characters  of  judge  and 
party,  may  claim  it  in  virtue  of  the  new  capacity  you  have  assumed, 
and  profit  by  your  own  wrong.  The  time  within  which  you  might 
have  been  punished  for  this  daring  attempt  to  pack  a jury  is,  I 
fear,  elapsed  ; but  no  length  of  time  shall  erase  the  record  of  it. 

The  mischiefs  you  have  done  this  country  are  not  confined  to 
your  interpretation  of  the  laws.  You  are  a minister,  my  Lord,  and 
as  such  have  long  been  consulted.  Let  us  candidly  examine  what 
use  you  have  made  of  your  ministerial  influence.  I will  not 
descend  to  little  matters,  but  come  at  once  to  those  important 
points  on  which  your  resolution  was  waited  for,  on  which  the  ex- 
pectation of  your  opinion  kept  a great  part  of  the  nation  in 
suspense.  A constitutional  question  arises  upon  a declaration  of 
the  law  of  Parliament  by  which  the  freedom  of  election  and  the 
birthright  of  the  subject  were  supposed  to  have  been  invaded. 
The  King’s  servants  are  accused  of  violating  the  Constitution.  The 
nation  is  in  a ferment.  The  ablest  men  of  all  parties  engage  in 
the  question,  and  exert  their  utmost  abilities  in  the  discussion  of  it. 
What  part  has  the  honest  Lord  Mansfield  acted  ? As  an  eminent 
judge  of  the  law,  his  opinion  would  have  been  respected.  As  a 

21  These  iniquitous  proseoutions  cost  the  best  of  princes  six  thousand  pounds,  and 
ended  in  the  total  defeat  and  disgrace  of  the  prosecutors.  In  the  course  of  one  of  them 
Judge  Aston  had  the  unparalleled  impudence  to  tell  Mr.  Morris,  a gentleman  of  unques- 
tionable honor  and  integrity,  and  who  was  then  giving  his  evidence  on  oath,  that  he 
should  pay  very  little  regard  to  any  affidavit  he  should  make. 


292 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


peer,  he  had  a right  to  demand  an  audience  of  his  sovereign,  and 
inform  him  that  his  ministers  were  pursuing  unconstitutional  mea- 
sures. Upon  other  occasions,  my  Lord,  you  have  no  difficulty  in 
finding  your  way  into  the  closet.  The  pretended  neutrality  of 
belonging  to  no  party  will  not  save  your  reputation.  In  a question 
merely  political  an  honest  man  may  stand  neuter  ; but  the  laws 
and  Constitution  are  the  general’ property  of  the  subject ; not  to 
defend  is  to  relinquish — and  who  is  there  so  senseless  as  to  renounce 
his  share  in  a common  benefit,  unless  he  hopes  to  profit  by  a new 
division  of  the  spoil  ? Asa  Lord  of  Parliament,  you  were  repeatedly 
called  upon  to  condemn  or  defend  the  new  law  declared  by  the 
House  of  Commons.  You  affected  to  have  scruples,  and  every  ex- 
pedient was  attempted  to  remove  them.  The  question  was  proposed 
and  urged  to  you  in  a thousand  different  shapes.  Your  prudence 
still  supplied  you  with  evasion  ; your  resolution  was  invincible. 
For  my  own  part,  I am  not  anxious  to  penetrate  this  solemn  secret. 
I care  not  to  whose  wisdom  it  is  entrusted,  nor  how  soon  you  carry 
it  with  you  to  the  grave.22  You  have  betrayed  your  opinion  by  the 
very  care  you  have  taken  to  conceal  it.  It  is  not  from  Lord  Mans- 
field that  we  expect  any  reserve  in  declaring  his  real  sentiments  in 
favor  of  gov ernment  or  in  opposition  to  the  people ; nor  is  it  diffi- 
cult to  account  for  the  motions  of  a timid,  dishonest  heart,  which 
neither  has  virtue  enough  to  acknowledge  truth  nor  courage  to 
contradict  it.  Yet  you  continue  to  support  an  administration  which 
you  know  is  universally  odious,  and  which,  on  some  occasions,  you 
yourself  speak  of  with  contempt.  You  would  fain  be  thought  to 
take  no  share  in  government,  while  in  reality  you  are  the  main- 
spring of  the  machine.  Here,  too,  we  trace  the  little,  prudential 
policy  of  a Scotchman.  Instead  of  acting  that  open,  generous  part 
which  becomes  your  rank  and  station,  you  meanly  skulk  into  the 
closet  and  give  your  sovereign  such  advice  as  you  have  not  the  spirit 
to  avow  or  defend.  You  secretly  engross  the  power,  while  you 
decline  the  title,  of  a minister  ; and,  though  you  dare  not  be  Chan- 
cellor, you  know  how  to  secure  the  emoluments  of  the  office.  Are 
the  seals  to  be  for  ever  in  commission,  that  you  may  enjoy  five 
thousand  pounds  a year  ? I beg  pardon,  my  Lord  ! your  fears  have 
interposed  at  last,  and  forced  you  to  resign.  The  odium  of  con- 
tinuing Speaker  of  the  House  of  Lords  upon  such  terms  was  too 

22  He  said  in  the  House  of  Lords  that  he  believed  he  should  carry  his  opinion  with  him 
to  the  grave.  It  was  afterwards  reported  that  he  had  entrusted  it  in  special  confidence 
to  the  ingenious  Duke  of  Cumberland. 


Sir  Philip  Francis. 


293 


formidable  to  be  resisted.  What  a multitude  of  bad  passions  are 
forced  to  submit  to  a constitutional  infirmity  ! But,  though  you 
have  relinquished  the  salary,  you  still  assume  the  rights  of  a 
minister.  Your  conduct,  it  seems,  must  be  defended  in  Parliament. 
For  what  other  purpose  is  your  wretched  friend,  that  miserable 
Serjeant,  posted  to  the  House  of  Commons  ? Is  it  in  the  abilities 
of  a Mr.  Leigh  to  defend  the  great  Lord  Mansfield?  Or  is  he  only 
the  Punch  of  the  puppet-show,  to  speak  as  he  is  prompted  by  the 
chief  juggler  behind  the  curtain  ? 83 

In  public  affairs,  my  Lord,  cunning,  let  it  be  ever  so  well  wrought, 
will  not  conduct  a man  honorably  through  life.  Like  bad  money, 
it  may  be  current  for  a time,  but  it  will  be  soon  cried  down.  It 
cannot  consist  with  a liberal  spirit ; though  it  be  sometimes  united 
with  extraordinary  qualifications.  When  I acknowledge  your  abili- 
ties, you  may  believe  I am  sincere.  I feel  for  human  nature  when  I 
see  a man  so  gifted  as  you  are  descend  to  such  vile  practices.  Yet 
do  not  suffer  your  vanity  to  console  you  too  soon.  Believe  me,  my 
good  Lord,  you  are  not  admired  in  the  same  degree  in  which  you 
are  detested.  It  is  only  the  partiality  of  your  friends  that  balances 
the  defects  of  your  heart  with  the  superiority  of  your  understand- 
ing. No  learned  man,  even  among  your  own  tribe,  thinks  you 
qualified  to  preside  in  a court  of  common  law ; yet  it  is  confessed 
that  under  Justinian  you  might  have  made  an  incomparable 
prcetor.  It  is  remarkable  enough,  but  I hope  not  ominous,  that  the 
laws  you  understand  best,  and  the  judges  you  affect  to  admire  most, 
flourished  in  the  decline  of  a great  empire,  and  are  supposed  to  have 
contributed  to  its  fall. 

Here,  my  Lord,  it  may  be  proper  for  us  to  pause  together.  It  is 
not  for  my  own  sake  that  I wish  you  to  consider  the  delicacy  of  your 
situation.  Beware  how  you  indulge  the  first  emotions  of  your  re- 
sentment. This  paper  is  delivered  to  the  world,  and  cannot  be  re- 
called. The  prosecution  of  an  innocent  printer  cannot  alter  facts 
nor  refute  arguments.  Do  not  furnish  me  with  farther  materials 
against  yourself.  An  honest  man,  like  the  true  religion,  appeals  to 
the  understanding,  or  modestly  confides  in  the  eternal  evidence  of 
his  conscience.  The  impostor  employs  force  instead  of  argument, 
imposes  silence  where  he  cannot  convince,  and  propagates  his  cha- 
racter by  the  sword.  Junius. 


23  This  paragraph  gagged  poor  Leigh.  I am  really  concerned  for  the  man,  and  wish  it 
were  possible  to  open  his  mouth.  He  is  a very  pretty  orator. 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


“ This  man  has  been  to  his  own  country  and  to  all  Europe  a new  light  of 
political  wisdom  and  moral  experience.  ” — Schlegel. 

“ Edmund  Burke  was  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  sons  of  men.” — Allibone. 

EDMUND  BURKE  was  born  in  a house  on  Arran  Quay,  Dublin, 
in  1730.  His  father,  Richard  Burke,  a Protestant,  was  an  at- 
torney who  enjoyed  a large  and  thriving  practice.  His  mother, 
Miss  Mary  Nagle,  was  a Catholic,  an  excellent  lady,  and  a member 
of  an  ancient  Irish  family  of  the  county  of  Cork.1 2 

In  his  twelfth  year  Edmund  was  sent  to  school  at  Ballitore,  in 
Kildare,  and  there,  under  a skilful  master,  Abraham  Shackleton, 
the  Quaker,  he  studied  for  about  two  years.  It  is  said  “ the  boy 
is  father  of  the  man.”  Of  the  truth  of  this,  Burke  is  a happy  illus- 
tration. As  a boy  he  was  very  studious  and  a hard  worker.  “When 
we  were  at  play,”  said  his  brother  Richard,  in  after  years,  “Ned 
was  always  at  work.”  He  was  also  noted  for  his  wit,  humor,  and 
amiability. 

Trinity  College,  Dublin,  Burke  entered  in  1743. 3 To-day  his 
portrait  adorns  the  walls  of  the  Examination  Hall.  Goldsmith 
entered  Trinity  the  following  year,  but  it  appears  these  distin- 
guished men  knew  little  of  each  other  in  early  life.  Burke  took 
the  degree  of  B.A.  in  1748,  and  three  years  subsequently  the  degree 
of  M.A.  While  pursuing  his  university  course,  he  read  Shakspere 
and  other  great  poets  with  unceasing  delight. 

In  1747  Edmund  Burke  entered  the  Middle  Temple,  London, 
with  the  intention  of  studying  law.  But  he  never  became  a law- 
yer. His  great  genius  soon  found  its  fitting  sphere  in  literature 
and  in  the  life  of  a statesman.  His  very  first  production,  “ The 
Vindication  of  Natural  Society,”  in  imitation  of  Lord  Bolingbroke, 
is  pronounced  by  the  best  critics  to  be  “ the  most  perfect  specimen 
of  imitation  that  was  ever  penned.”  In  the  course  of  the  same 
year  (1756)  he  published  his  celebrated  “ Essay  on  the  Sublime 

1 Miss  Nano  Nagle,  the  holy  foundress  of  the  Presentation  Nuns,  was  a descendant  of 
the  same  family. 

2 It  is  said  that  he  also  studied  for  a time  at  the  English  Catholic  College  of  St.  Omer, 

France. 


294 


Edmund  Burke . 


295 


and  Beautiful.”  This  work  attracted  immense  attention,  brought 
the  author  money,  and  at  once  stamped  him  as  a remarkable  young 
man. 

He  was  now  in  his  twenty-eighth  year,  but  severe  study  and  men- 
tal effort  began  to  tell  on  a constitution  naturally  delicate.  To  his 
Catholic  countryman,  Dr.  Christopher  Nugent,  he  applied  for  ad- 
vice. He  was  told  that  he  especially  needed  relaxation,  and  the 
friendly  physician,  that  he  might  more  carefully  attend  to  his  wants, 
invited  him  to  take  up  his  residence  in  his  own  hospitable  house. 
Here  Burke  found  a home  and  unceasing  care.  The  good  doctor  had 
a bright,  lovely,  and  most  amiable  daughter.  That  the  doctor’s 
daughter  should  assist  in  the  doctor’s  work  was  natural,  nor 
perhaps  was  it  less  natural  that  the  patient  should  be  fascinated. 
44  The  rest  may  be  imagined,”  says  one  of  Burke’s  biographers. 
44  The  patient  ventured  to  prescribe  for  himself,  the  disease  having 
reached  the  heart,  and,  in  1757,  Miss  Nugent  became  Mrs.  Edmund 
Burke.”  Thus  was  the  cure  perfected  in  a short  time,  and,  what 
was  more,  the  future  statesman  obtained  the  greatest  earthly  bless- 
ing that  any  man  can  desire — a most  devoted  wife,  loving  compan- 
ion, wise  adviser,  and,  above  all,  sympathizing  friend.  The  young 
lady  had  not  a shilling  ; but  she  brought  with  her  the  incomparable 
fortune  of  education,  beauty,  and  virtue.  The  eulogy  of  this  good 
and  accomplished  Irishwoman  may  be  given  in  one  sentence  of  her 
illustrious  husband.  He  declared  that,  amid  all  the  toils,  and 
trials,  and  conflicts  oi  life,  4 4 every  care  vanished  the  moment  he 
entered  his  own  roof.” 

Burke’s  entrance  on  public  life  may  be  dated  from  his  appoint- 
ment, in  1761,  as  private  secretary  to  44  Single-Speech  ” Hamilton, 
who  then  became  Chief-Secretary  for  Ireland.  The  atmosphere  of 
Dublin  Castle,  however,  did  not  long  agree  with  the  clever  young 
Whig,  who  threw  up  a lately-conferred  pension  of  $1,500  a year, 
broke  with  Hamilton,  and  returned  to  London.  In  his  whole  life 
Hamilton  made  but  one  good  speech,  hence  the  handle  to  his  name, 
44  Single-Speech.”  It  is  said  Burke  wrote  the  speech  for  him.  But 
what  this  man  lacked  in  brains  and  ability  was  abundantly  supplied 
by  another  sort  of  article,  which  we  may  label  44  arrogance.”  Be- 
fore parting  with  Burke,  he  had  the  meanness  to  insult  him.  44 1 
took  you  down  from  a garret,”  3 taunted  the  malicious  44  Single- 


3 This  was  a falsehood.  Burke’s  family  was  wealthy,  and  his  own  social  position  was 
scarcely  inferior  to  Hamilton  s. 


296  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Speech.”  “ Sir,”  replied  the  noble  Burke,  in  a tone  of  withering 
sarcasm,  “it  was  I that  descended  to  know  you.” 

A brilliant  career  awaited  Burke  in  London.  He  was  appointed 
private  secretary  to  the  Marquis  of  Eockingham,  who  became  Prime 
Minister  in  1765.  The  following  year  the  gifted  author  of  the 
“ Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  the  Beautiful  ” entered  Parliament  as 
member  for  Wendover,  and  no  man,  perhaps,  ever  entered  or  ever 
will  enter  the  legislative  halls  of  Great  Britain  with  so  full  a mind 
and  so  well  trained  for  his  work.  Now  began  his  political  career. 
Reform , Ireland , and  America  were  the  great  subjects  of  the  day, 
and  the  mighty  voice  of  Edmund  Burke  was  ever  heard  on  the  side 
of  justice  and  liberty.  His  very  first  speech  ri vetted  the  attention 
of  the  House.  At  the  success  of  this  first  effort  a conceited  mem- 
ber of  the  Literary  Club  expressed  some  astonishment  in  the  pre- 
sence of  old  Dr.  Johnstm  of  dictionary  fame.  “ Sir,”  interrupted 
the  indignant  literary  dictator,  snuffing  his  man  out  in  a moment — 
“ sir,  there  is  no  wonder  at  all.  We  who  know  Mr.  Burke  know 
that  he  will  be  one  of  thej^rs^  men  in  the  country.” 

“At  the  age  of  thirty-six,”  says  a late  writer,  “he  stood  for  the 
first  time  on  the  floor  of  St.  Stephen’s  Chapel,  whose  walls  were  to 
ring  so  often  during  the  next  eight-and-twenty  years  with  the  rolling 
periods  of  his  grand  eloquence,  and  the  peals  of  acclamation  burst- 
ing alike  from  friend  and  foe.  Among  the  great  men  who  then  sat 
upon  the  benches  of  that  ancient  hall,  Burke  at  once  took  a foremost 
place.” 

He  advocated  the  freedom  of  the  press ; he  advocated  Catholic 
emancipation  ; 4 he  advocated  the  rights  of  the  American  Colonies  ; 
and  his  matchless  words  careered  over  the  broad  Atlantic,  strength- 
ening the  hearts  and  nerving  the  arms  of  the  American  patriots. 
“Venality  and  meanness,”  says  Campbell,  “stood  appalled  in  his 
presence.” 

But  we  must  be  brief.  The  life  of  Edmund  Burke  is  a history  of 
those  eventful  times  ; here  it  cannot  all  be  told. 

One  day,  after  a brilliant  conversation,  four  gentlemen  went  out 
for  a walk.  They  were  Burke,  his  son  Eichard,  the  friend  of  his 
youth,  Shackleton,  of  Ballitore  school,  and  another  gentleman. 

4 Edmund  Burke  was  not  a Catholic  ; but  “ against  the  penal  laws  then  weighing  upon 
the  Irish  Catholics,”  writes  Arnold,  u he  spoke  and  wrote  with  a generous  pertinacity. 
The  memory  of  his  mother  had,  perhaps,  as  much  to  do  with  this  as  the  native  enlighten- 
ment and  capacity  of  his  mind.” 


Edmund  Burke . 


297 

Mr.  Shackleton  remarked  to  young  Burke  : “Your  father  is  the 
greatest  man  of  the  age.”  “ He  is,”  replied  the  son  with  filial  en- 
thusiasm, “ the  greatest  man  of  any  age  ! ” * His  son  was  a young 
man  of  splendid  gifts  ; in  fact,  Edmund  Burke  always  considered 
his  son’s  talents  as  far  superior  to  his  own.  Such  was  the  modesty 
of  this  illustrious  man. 

Burke’s  impeachment,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  of  Warren 
Hastings,  Governor-General  of  India,  was  perhaps  the  grandest 
oratorical  achievement  of  his  life.  In  a speech  of  four  days  he 
opened  the  case,  in  February,  1788.  He  continued  his  statement 
during  certain  days  in  April.  His  charges  he  wound  up  with  a 
matchless  address,  which  began  on  May  28,  and  lasted  for  nine  suc- 
ceeding days.  The  effect  was  indescribable  ; ladies  sobbed  and 
screamed,  and  stern  men  felt  the  tears  trickling  down  their  cheeks. 
The  dignity  and  grandeur  of  this  memorable  speech  may  be  judged 
from  the  concluding  sentences : “My  Lords,  it  is  not  the  crimi- 
nality of  the  prisoner,  it  is  not  the  claims  of  the  Commons,  to 
demand  judgment  to  be  passed  upon  him ; it  is  not  the  honor  and 
dignity  of  this  court,  and  the  welfare  of  millions  of  the  human 
race,  that  alone  call  upon  you.  When  the  devouring  flames  shall 
have  destroyed  this  perishable  globe,  and  it  sinks,  into  the  abyss  of 
nature  whence  it  was  commanded  into  existence  by  the  great  Author 
of  it — then,  my  lords,  when  all  nature,  kings  and  judges  themselves, 
must  answer  for  their  actions,  there  will  be  found  what  supersedes 
creation  itself — namely,  Eternal  Justice.  It  was  the  attribute  of 
the  great  God  of  Nature  before  worlds  were,  it  will  reside  with  him 
when  they  perish  ; and  the  earthly  portion  of  it  committed  to  your 
care  is  now  solemnly  deposited  in  your  hands  by  the  Commons  of 
England.  I have  done.” 

Another  subject  now  filled  his  mind.  He  foresaw,  almost  with 
prophetic  vision,  that  the  hurricane  of  revolution  was  gathering 
over  France,  and  when  it  broke  in  its  fury,  devastating  that  beauti- 
ful land,  he  gave  the  world  his  greatest  work,  “Reflections  on  the 
Revolution  in  France.”  By  this  unrivalled  book  the  great  Irishman 
made  Europe  his  debtor.  Kings  complimented  him  ; even  the 
bluff  old  George  III.  said  “it  was  a book  that  every  gentleman 
should  read.”  The  King  of  Poland  sent  him  his  likeness  on  a gold 
medal,  with  a flattering  letter  in  English.  Honors  were  showered 


5 Burke  had  only  two  children— Christopher,  who  died  an  infant,  and  Richard,  who 
reached  the  age  of  manhood,  but  died  some  years  before  his  father. 


298  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

on  the  author  by  the  universities,  and  the  clergy  of  France  and 
England  were  warm  in  expressing  their  gratitude.6 

But  by  his  opinions  in  regard  to  the  French  Revolution  be  also 
made  himself  many  opponents.  It  caused  the  estrangement  between 
him  and  Fox.  The  breach  was  never  healed.  When  the  rupture 
with  Fox  occurred,  Burke,  in  one  of  his  eloquent  speeches,  said, 
in  his  own  energetic  way  : “ I have  made  a great  sacrifice  ; I have 
done  my  duty,  though  I have  lost  my  friend.” 

A severe  domestic  blow  now  fell  upon  the  aged  philosopher  and 
statesman.  His  only  son,  Richard,  died  in  1794.  This  sad  event 
threw  a dark  shadow  across  his  last  days.  It  almost  broke  his 
heart,  as  his  love  for  his  gifted  son  was  unbounded.  In  one  of  his 
celebrated  letters  he  thus  refers  to  his  loss : “ I live  in  an  inverted 
order.  They  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  have  gone  before  me  ; 
they  who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity  are  in  the  place  of 
ancestors.  The  storm  has  gone  over  me,  and  I lie  like  one  of  these 
old  oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  has  scattered  about  me.  I am 
stript  of  all  my  honors.  I am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  pros- 
trate on  the  earth.  There,  and  prostrate  there,  I must  unfeignedly 
recognize  the  divine  justice,  and  in  some  degree  submit  to  it.” 7 
The  three  years  which  he  survived  his  son  were  chiefly  spent  in 
acts  of  charity.  For  the  children  of  French  emigrants  he  founded 
a school,  and  its  permanent  support  formed  one  of  his  latest  cares. 
Retaining  the  perfect  possession  of  all  his  faculties  to  the  last,  the 
immortal  Edmund  Burke  calmly  expired  at  his  country  seat  of 
Beaconsfield  in  July,  1794,  and  his  honored  remains  were  laid  in  a 
vault  under  Beaconsfield  church,  beside  the  dust  of  that  son  whom 
he  had  loved  so  well.  His  last  words  were  : “ God  bless  you  !” 

Of  Burke’s  works  and  character  we  have  but  space  for  a few  re- 
marks. His  “Parliamentary  Speeches”  fill  several  volumes,  and 
form  an  enduring  monument  to  his  fame  as,  perhaps,  the  greatest 
philosophical  statesman  that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  His  “Essay 
on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful  ” stands  in  the  front  rank  of  English 
classics.  Burke  holds  the  same  place  in  English  prose  that  Shakspere 
does  in  English  verse.  He  united  solidity  of  thought  to  brilliancy 
of  imagination  in  a degree,  perhaps,  never  attained  by  any  other 
writer.  In  our  prose  literature,  his  “ Reflections  on  the  Revolution 

"“The  first  orator  of  England,”  wrote  the  noble  Catholic  Archbishop  of  Aix,‘lhas 
become  the  defender  of  the  clergy  of  Prance.” 

7 “ Letter  to  a noble  Lord.  ” 


Edmund  Burke . 


299 


in  France”  is  the  masterpiece  of  masterpieces.  It  is  a treasury  of 
eloquence  and  political  wisdom.  Every  great  conservative  Catholic 
statesman  since  the  days  of  Burke  has  nourished  his  mind  on  this 
book.  It  is  a Christian  book.  It  shows  that  without  religion,  civi- 
lization must  cease  to  exist.  “We  know,”  says  Edmund  Burke, 
“and,  what  is  better,  we  feel  inwardly,  that  religion  is  the  basis 
of  civil  society,  and  the  source  of  all  good  and  of  all  comfort.” 

“ Burke  corrected  his  age,”  says  the  famous  Catholic  philosopher, 
Schlegel,  “ when  it  was  at  the  height  of  its  revolutionary  frenzy ; 
and,  without  maintaining  any  system  of  philosophy,  he  seems  to 
have  seen  further  into  the  true  nature  of  society,  and  to  have  more 
clearly  comprehended  the  effect  of  religion  in  connecting  individual 
security  with  national  welfare,  than  any  philosopher  or  any  system 
of  philosophy  of  any  preceding  age.”8 

This  great  man  loved  his  native  Ireland,  and  for  thirty  years  his 
voice  and  pen  ceased  not  to  demand  justice  for  his  oppressed  Catho- 
lic countrymen.  His  last  “Letter  on  the  Affairs  of  Ireland”  was 
written  but  a few  months  before  his  death.  In  it  he  avows  that  he 
has  not  “power  of  mind  or  body  to  bring  out  his  sentiments  with 
their  natural  force;  but,”  adds  the  grand  old  statesman,  “ I do  not 
wish  to  have  it  concealed  that  I am  of  the  same  opinion  to  my  last 
breath  which  I entertained  when  my  faculties  were  at  the  best.” 
Brave  and  solemn  words,  indeed  ! 

In  conversation  Burke  was  unrivalled.  Said  Dr.  Johnson  : “I 
do  not  grudge  Burke’s  being  the  first  man  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, for  he  is  the  first  everywhere.  He  is  an  extraordinary  man. 
He  is  the  only  man  whose  common  conversation  corresponds  with 
the  general  fame  which  he  has  in  the  world.  Take  him  up  where 
you  please,  he  is  ready  to  meet  you.  No  man  of  sense  could  meet 
Burke  by  accident  under  a gateway  to  avoid  a shower  without  being 
convinced  that  he  was  the  first  man  in  England.  ” 9 Grattan  also 
declared  that  he  was  the  greatest  man  in  conversation  he  ever  met. 

“ Shakspere  and  Burke,”  said  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  “ are,  if  I 
may  venture  the  expression,  above  talent.  Burke’s  works  contain  an 
ampler  store  of  political  and  moral  wisdom  than  can  be  found  in  any 
other  writer  whatever.” 

Lord  Macaulay  styles  him  “ the  greatest  master  of  eloquence,”  and 
pronounces  him  “superior  to  every  orator,  ancient  or  modern.” 

8 “Lectures  on  the  History  of  Literature,”  lect.  xiv. 

9 Boswell’s  “ Life  of  Johnson.” 


300 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


But,  though  a master  of  eloquence,  Edmund  Burke,  happily, 
had  more  wisdom  than  eloquence.  “Never,”  says  Cazales,  “was 
there  a more  beautiful  alliance  between  virtue  and  talents.  Mr. 
Burke  was  superior  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  His  prophetic 
genius  only  astonished  the  nation  which  it  should  have  governed.” 

“ Burke,”  remarked  Hamilton,  “ understood  everything  but 
gaming  and  music.” 

“He  was,”  said  Grattan,  “a  prodigy  of  nature  and  of  acquisi- 
tion. He  read  everything — he  saw  everything.  His  knowledge  of 
history  amounted  to  a power  of  foretelling ; and,  when  he  perceived 
the  wild  work  that  was  doing  in  France,  that  great  political  physi- 
cian, cognizant  of  symptoms,  distinguished  between  the  access  of 
fever  and  the  force  of  health,  and  what  others  conceived  to  be  the 
vigor  of  her  constitution,  he  knew  to  be  the  paroxysm  of  her  mad- 
ness ; and  thus,  prophet-like,  he  pronounced  the  destinies  of  France, 
and  in  his  prophetic  fury  admonished  nations.” 

“ So  long,”  exclaims  an  American  writer,  “ as  virtue  shall  be  be- 
loved, wisdom  revered,  or  genius  admired,  so  long  will  the  memory 
of  this  illustrious  exemplar  of  all  be  fresh  in  the  world’s  history  ; 
for  human  nature  has  too  much  interest  in  the  preservation  of  such 
a character  ever  to  permit  the  name  of  Edmund  Burke  to  perish 
from  the  earth.”  10 


SPEECH  ON  AMERICAN  TAXATION— 1774. 

Sir:  I agree  with  the  honorable  gentleman  who  spoke  last,  that  this 
subject  is  not  new  in  this  House.  For  nine  long  years,  session  after 
session,  we  have  been  lashed  round  and  round  this  miserable  circle  of 
occasional  arguments  and  temporary  expedients.  I am  sure  our 
heads  must  turn  and  our  stomachs  nauseate  with  them.  We  have 
had  them  in  every  shape  ; we  have  looked  at  them  in  every  point 
of  view.  Invention  is  exhausted  ; reason  is  fatigued ; experience  has 
given  judgment ; but  obstinacy  is  not  yet  conquered. 

The  honorable  gentleman  has  made  one  more  endeavor  to  diver- 
sify the  form  of  this  disgusting  argument.  He  has  thrown  out  a 
speech  composed  almost  entirely  of  challenges.  Challenges  are 
serious  things ; and,  as  he  is  a man  of  prudence  as  well  as  resolu- 


10  AUibone,  “ Dictionary  of  Authors.”  In  person  Burke  was  about  five  feet  ten  inches 
in  height,  erect  and  well-formed.  He  had  a manly,  pleasing  countenance. 


Edmund  Btcrke. 


301 


tion,  I dare  say  he  has  very  well  weighed  those  challenges  before  he 
delivered  them. 

He  desires  to  know  whether,  if  we  were  to  repeal  this  tax,  agreea- 
bly to  the  propositions  of  the  honorable  gentleman  who  made  the 
motion,  the  Americans  would  not  post  on  this  concession,  in  order 
to  make  a new  attack  on  the  next  body  of  taxes,  and  whether  they 
would  not  call  for  a repeal  of  the  duty  on  wine  as  loudly  as  they  do 
now  for  the  repeal  of  the  duty  on  tea.  Sir,  I can  give  no  security 
on  this  subject ; but  I will  do  all  that  I can,  and  all  that  can  be 
fairly  demanded.  To  the  experience  which  the  honorable  gentleman 
reprobates  in  one  instant  and  reverts  to  in  the  next,  to  that  expe- 
rience, without  the  least  wavering  or  hesitation  on  my  part,  I 
steadily  appeal ; and  would  to  God  there  were  no  other  arbiter  to 
decide  on  the  vote  with  which  the  House  is  to  conclude  this  day ! 

When  Parliament  repealed  the  Stamp  Act  in  the  year  1766,  I 
affirm,  first,  that  the  Americans  did  not  in  consequence  of  this  mea- 
sure call  upon  you  to  give  up  the  former  parliamentary  revenue 
which  subsisted  in  that  country,  or  even  any  one  of  the  articles 
which  compose  it.  I affirm  also  that  when,  departing  from  the 
maxims  of  that  repeal,  you  revived  the  scheme  of  taxation,  and 
thereby  filled  the  minds  of  the  colonists  with  new  jealousy  and  all 
sorts  of  apprehensions,  then  it  was  that  they  quarrelled  with  the 
old  taxes  as  well  as  the  new  ; then  it  was,  and  not  till  then,  that  they 
questioned  all  parts  of  your  legislative  power,  and  by  the  battery  of 
such  questions  have  shaken  the  solid  structure  of  this  empire  to  its 
deepest  foundations. 

Gentlemen  will  force  the  colonists  to  take  the  teas.  You  will 
force  them  ! Has  seven  years’  struggle  been  yet  able  to  force  them  ? 
Oh  ! but  it  seems  “ we  are  in  the  right.  The  tax  is  trilling,  in  ef- 
fect it  is  rather  an  exoneration  than  an  imposition  ; three-fourths 
of  the  duty  formerly  payable  on  teas  exported  to  America  is  taken 
off ; the  place  of  collection  is  only  shifted ; instead  of  the  retention 
of  a shilling  from  the  drawback  here,  it  is  threepence  custom  paid 
in  America.”  All  this,  sir,  is  very  true.  But  this  is  the  very  folly 
and  mischief  of  the  act.  Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  you  know 
that  you  have  deliberately  thrown  away  a large  duty  which  you  held 
secure  and  quiet  in  your  hands  for  the  vain  hope  of  getting  one 
three-fourths  less  through  every  hazard,  through  certain  litigation, 
and  possibly  through  war. 

But  they  tell  you,  sir,  that  your  dignity  is  tied  to  it.  I know 


302 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


not  how  it  happens,  but  this  dignity  of  yours  is  a terrible  encum- 
brance to  you  ; for  it  has  of  late  been  ever  at  war  with  your  inter- 
est, your  equity,  and  every  idea  of  your  policy.  Show  the  thing  you 
contend  for  to  be  reason  ; show  it  to  be  common  sense ; show  it  to 
be  the  means  of  attaining  some  useful  end,  and  then  I am  content 
to  allow  it  what  dignity  you  please.  But  what  dignity  is  derived  from 
the  perseverance  in  absurdity  is  more  than  I ever  could  discern. 

Let  us,  sir,  embrace  some  system  or  other  before  we  end  this  ses- 
sion. Do  you  mean  to  tax  America,  and  to  draw  from  thence  a 
productive  revenue  ? If  you  do,  speak  out ; name,  fix,  ascertain 
this  revenue ; settle  its  quantity,  define  its  objects,  provide  for  its  col- 
lection, and  then  fight  when  you  have  something  to  fight  for.  If 
you  murder,  rob  ; if  you  kill,  take  possession  ; and  do  not  appear 
in  the  character  of  madmen  as  well  as  assassins,  violent,  vindictive, 
bloody,  and  tyrannical  without  an  object.  But  may  better  coun- 
sels guide  you  ! 

Again  and  again  revert  to  your  old  principles  ; seek  peace  and  en- 
sure it ; leave  America,  if  she  has  taxable  matter  in  her,  to  tax  her- 
self. I am  not  here  going  into  the  distinctions  of  rights,  nor  at- 
tempting to  mark  their  boundaries.  I do  not  enter  into  these 
metaphysical  distinctions  ; I hate  the  very  sound  of  them.  Leave 
the  Americans  as  they  anciently  stood,  and  these  distinctions,  born 
of  our  unhappy  contest,  will  die  along  with  it.  They  and  we,  and 
they  and  our  ancestors,  have  been  happy  under  that  system.  Let 
the  memory  of  all  actions  in  contradiction  to  that  good  old  mode 
on  both  sides  be  extinguished  for  ever.  Be  content  to  bind  America 
by  laws  of  trade ; you  have  always  done  it.  Let  this  be  your  rea- 
son for  binding  their  trade.  But  do  not  burden  them  by  taxes; 
you  were  not  used  to  do  so  from  the  beginning.  Let  this  be  your 
reason  for  not  taxing.  These  are  the  arguments  of  states  and 
kingdoms.  Leave  the  rest  to  the  schools  ; for  there  only  they  may 
be  discussed  with  safety.  But  if,  intemperately,  unwisely,  fatally, 
you  sophisticate,  and  poison  the  very  source  of  government  by  urg- 
ing subtle  deductions  and  consequences  odious  to  those  you  govern, 
from  the  unlimited  and  illimitable  nature  of  supreme  sovereignty, 
you  will  teach  them  by  these  means  to  call  that  sovereignty  itself 
in  question.  When  you  drive  him  hard,  the  boar  will  surely  turn 
upon  the  hunters.  If  that  sovereignty  and  their  freedom  cannot 
be  reconciled,  which  will  they  take  ? They  will  cast  your  sover- 
eignty in  your  face.  Nobody  will  be  argued  into  slavery.  Sir,  let 


Edmund  Burke. 


303 


the  gentlemen  on  the  other  side  call  forth  all  their  ability  ; let  the 
best  of  them  get  up  and.  tell  me  what  one  character  of  liberty  the 
Americans  have , and  what  one  brand  of  slavery  they  are  free  from , 
if  they  are  bound  in  their  property  and  industry  by  all  the  restraints 
you  can  imagine  on  commerce,  and,  at  the  same  time,  are  made 
pack-horses  of  every  tax  you  choose  to  impose,  without  the  least 
share  in  granting  them. 

A noble  lord,11  who  spoke  some  time  ago,  is  full  of  the  fire  of  in- 
genuous youth.  He  has  said  that  the  Americans  are  our  children, 
and  how  can  they  revolt  against  their  parent  ? He  says  if  they  are 
not  free  in  their  present  state,  England  is  not  free,  because  Man- 
chester and  other  considerable  places  are  not  represented.  So  then, 
because  some  towns  in  England  are  not  represented,  America  is  to 
have  no  representative  at  all  ! They  are  “ our  children,”  but  when 
children  ask  for  bread  are  we  not  to  give  a stone  ? 

Ask  yourselves  the  question  : Will  the  Americans  be  content  in 
such  a state  of  slavery  ? If  not,  look  to  the  consequences.  Reflect 
how  you  are  to  govern  a people  who  think  they  ought  to  be  free  and 
think  they  are  not.  Your  scheme  yields  no  revenue  ; it  yields  no- 
thing but  discontent,  disorder,  disobedience ; and  such  is  the  state 
of  America  that  after  wading  up  to  your  eyes  in  blood  you  could 
only  just  end  where  you  begun — that  is,  to  tax  where  no  revenue  is 
to  be  found,  to — my  voice  fails  me  ; my  inclination,  indeed,  carries 
me  no  further,  all  is  confusion  beyond  it  ! 

On  this  business  of  America  I confess  I am  serious,  even  to  sad- 
ness. I have  had  but  one  opinion  concerning  it  since  I sat  and  be- 
fore I sat  in  Parliament.  The  noble  lord  12  will,  as  usual,  probably 
attribute  the  part  taken  by  me  and  my  friends  in  this  business  to  a 
desire  of  getting  his  places.  Let  him  enjoy  this  happy  and  original 
idea.  If  I deprived  him  of  it,  I should  take  away  most  of  his  wit, 
and  all  his  argument.  But  I would  rather  bear  the  brunt  of  all  his 
wit,  and,  indeed,  blows  much  heavier,  than  stand  answerable  to  God 
for  embracing  a system  that  tends  to  the  destruction  of  some  of  the 
very  best  and  fairest  of  his  works.  But  I know  the  map  of  England 
as  well  as  the  noble  lord  or  any  other  person,  and  I know  that  the 
way  I take  is  not  the  way  to  preferment.  My  excellent  and  honor- 
able friend  under  me  on  the  floor  has  trod  that  road  with  great  toil 
for  upwards  of  twenty  years  together.  He  is  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
noble  lord’s  destination.  However,  the  tracks  of  my  worthy  friend 


11  Lord  Caremarthen. 


12  Lord  North. 


304 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


are  those  I have  ever  wished  to  follow ; because  I know  they  lead 
to  honor.  Long  may  we  tread  the  same  road  together,  whoever 
may  accompany  us,  or  whoever  may  laugh  at  us  on  our  journey  ! 


LOUIS  XVI.  AND  HIS  QUEEN,  MARIE  ANTIONETTE. 

[From  “ Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France.”] 

History  will  record  that  on  the  morning  of  the  6th  of  October, 
1789,  the  King  and  Queen  of  France,  after  a day  of  confusion,  alarm, 
dismay,  and  slaughter*  lay  down,  under  the  pledged  security  of 
public  faith,  to  indulge  nature  in  a few  hours  of  respite  and  troubled, 
melancholy  repose.  From  this  sleep  the  Queen  was  first  startled  by 
the  voice  of  the  sentinel  at  her  door,  who  cried  out  to  her  to  save 
herself  by  flight ; that  this  was  the  last  proof  of  fidelity  he  could 
give  ; that  they  were  upon  him,  and  he  was  dead.  Instantly  he  was 
cut  down.  A band  of  cruel  ruffians  and  assassins,  reeking  with  his 
blood,  rushed  into  the  chamber  of  the  Queen,  and  pierced  with  a 
hundred  strokes  of  bayonets  and  poinards  the  bed  from  whence  this 
persecuted  woman  had  but  just  time  to  fly  almost  naked,  and 
through  ways  unknown  to  the  murderers  had  escaped  to  seek  refuge 
at  the  feet  of  a king  and  husband  not  secure  of  his  own  life  for  a 
moment. 

This  King,  to  say  no  more  of  him,  and  this  Queen,  and  their  infant 
children  (who  once  would  have  been  the  pride  and  hope  of  a great  and 
generous  people)  were  then  forced  to  abandon  the  sanctuary  of  the 
most  splendid  palace  in  the  world,  which  they  left  swimming  in  blood, 
polluted  by  massacre,  and  strewed  with  scattered  limbs  and  mutilated 
carcasses.  Thence  they  were  conducted  into  the  capital  of  their 
kingdom.  Two  had  been  selected  from  the  unprovoked,  unresisted, 
promiscuous  slaughter  which  was  made  of  the  gentlemen  of  birth 
and  family  who  composed  the  King’s  body-guard.  These  two  gen- 
tlemen, with  all  the  parade  of  an  execution  of  justice,  were  cruelly 
and  publicly  dragged  to  the  block  and  beheaded  in  the  great  court 
of  the  palace.  Their  heads  were  stuck  upon  spears,  and  led  the 
procession,  whilst  the  royal  captives  who  followed  in  the  train  were 
slowly  moved  along,  amid  the  horrid  yells  and  shrilling  screams 
and  frantic  dances  and  infamous  contumelies,  and  all  the  unutter- 
able abominations  of  the  furies  of  hell,  in  the  abused  shape  of  the 


Edmund  Burke . 


305 


vilest  of  women.  After  they  had  been  made  to  taste,  drop  by  drop, 
more  than  the  bitterness  of  death  in  the  slow  torture  of  a journey 
of  twelve  miles  protracted  to  six  hours,  they  were,  under  a guard 
composed  of  those  very  soldiers  who  had  thus  conducted  them 
through  this  famous  triumph,  lodged  in  one  of  the  old  palaces  of 
Paris,  now  converted  into  a Bastile  for  kings. 

Influenced  by  the  inborn  feelings  of  my  nature,  and  not  being 
illuminated  by  a single  ray  of  the  new-sprung  modern  light,  I con- 
fess that  the  exalted  rank  of  the  persons  suffering,  and  particularly 
the  sex,  the  beauty,  and  the  amiable  qualities  of  the  descendant  of 
so  many  kings  and  emperors,  with  the  tender  age  of  royal  infants, 
insensible  only  through  infancy  and  innocence  of  the  cruel  outrages 
to  which  their  parents  were  exposed,  instead  of  being  a subject  of 
exultation,  adds  not  a little  to  my  sensibility  on  that  most  melan- 
choly occasion. 

I hear  that  though  Louis  XYI.  supported  himself,  he  felt  much 
on  that  shameful  occasion.  As  a man,  it  became  him  to  feel  for  his 
wife  and  children,  and  the  faithful  guards  of  his  person,  that  were 
massacred  in  cold  blood  about  him ; as  a prince,  it  became  him  to 
feel  for  the  strange  and  frightful  transformation  of  his  civilized 
subjects,  and  to  be  more  grieved  for  them  than  to  be  solicitous  for 
himself.  It  derogates  little  from  his  fortitude,  while  it  adds  infi- 
nitely to  the  honor  of  his  humanity.  I hear,  and  I rejoice  to  hear, 
that  the  great  lady,  the  other  object  of  the  triumph,  has  borne  that 
day,  and  that  she  bears  all  the  succeeding  days,  that  she  bears  the  im- 
prisonment of  her  husband,  and  her  own  captivity,  and  the  exile  of 
her  friends,  and  the  insulting  adulation  of  addresses,  and  the  whole 
weight  of  her  accumulated  wrongs,  with  a serene  patience,  in  a 
manner  suited  to  her  rank  and  race,  and  becoming  the  offspring  of 
a sovereign  distinguished  for  her  piety  and  her  courage ; that,  like 
her,  she  has  lofty  sentiments ; that  she  feels  with  the  dignity  of  a 
Roman  matron  ; that  in  the  last  extremity  she  will  save  herself  from 
the  last  disgrace ; and  that,  if  she  must  fall,  she  will  fall  by  no  ig- 
noble hand. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I saw  the  Queen  of 
France,  then  the  Dauphiness,  at  Versailles,  and  surely  never  lighted 
on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a more  delightful 
vision.  I saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheer- 
ing the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in,  glittering  like 
the  morning  star,  full  of  life,  and  splendor,  and  joy.  Oh  ! what  a 


306  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

revolution,  and  what  a heart  must  I have  to  contemplate  without, 
emotion  that  elevation  and  that  fall  ! Little  did  I dream,  when  she 
added  titles  of  veneration  to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respect- 
ful love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote 
against  disgrace  concealed  in  that  bosom  ; little  did  I dream  that  I 
should  have  lived  to  see  such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a nation 
of  gallant  men,  in  a nation  of  men  of  honor  and  of  cavaliers.  I 
thought  ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped  from  their  scabbards 
to  avenge  even  a look  that  threatened  her  with  insult.  But  the 
.age  of  chivalry  is  gone  ; that  of  sophisters,  economists,  and  calcu- 
lators has  succeeded,  and  the  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished  for 
ever.  Never,  never  more  shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to 
rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  dignified  obedience,  that 
subordination  of  the  heart  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude 
itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The  unbought  grace  of  life, 
the  chief  defence  of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and 
heroic  enterprise  is  gone  ! It  is  gone,  that  sensibility  of  principle, 
that  chastity  of  honor,  which  felt  a stain  like  a wound,  which  in- 
spired courage,  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled  what- 
ever it  touched,  and  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil  by 
dosing  all  its  grossness. 


LETTER  TO  A NOBLE  LORD— 1796. 13 

My  Lord  : I could  hardly  flatter  myself  with  the  hope  that  so  very 
» early  in  the  season  I should  have  to  acknowledge  obligations  to  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  and  to  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale.  These  noble  persons 
have  lost  no  time  in  conferring  upon  me  that  sort  of  honor  which 
it  is  alone  within  their  competence,  and  which  it  is  certainly  most 
congenial  to  their  nature  and  their  manners,  to  bestow. 

To  be  ill  spoken  of,  in  whatever  language  they  speak,  by  the 
zealots  »of  the  new  sect  in  philosophy  and  politics,  of  which  these 
noble  persons  think  so  charitably,  and  of  which  others  think  so 
justly,  to  me  is  no  matter  of  uneasiness  or  surprise.  To  have  iu- 
curred  the  displeasure  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  or  the  Duke  of  Bed- 

13  This  letter  was  called  forth  by  the  shameful  personal  attacks  made  upon  the  vener* 
able  writer  and  his  pension,  in  the  House  of  Lords,  by  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl 
of  Lauderdale  in  1796.  The  above  is  simply  a few  of  the  best  passages  in  the  original, 
which  would  fill  over  fifty  pages  of  the  present  volume. 


Edmund  Burke. 


307 


ford,  to  fall  under  the  censure  of  Citizen  Brissot,  or  of  his  friend,  the 
Earl  of  Lauderdale,  I ought  to  consider  as  proofs  not  the  least  sat- 
isfactory that  I have  produced  some  part  of  the  effect  I proposed 
by  my  endeavors.  I have  labored  hard  to  earn  what  the  noble 
lords  are  generous  enough  to  pay.  Personal  offence  I have  given 
them  none.  The  part  they  take  against  me  is  from  zeal  to  the 
cause.  It  is  well.  It  is  perfectly  well.  I have  to  do  homage  to 
their  justice.  I have  to  thank  the  Bedfords  and  the  Lauderdales 
for  having  so  faithfully  and  so  fully  acquitted  towards  me  whatever 
arrear  of  debt  was  left  undischarged  by  the  Pries tleys  and  the 
Paines. 

But  will  they  not  let  me  remain  in  obscurity  and  inaction  ? Are 
they  apprehensive  that  if  an  atom  of  me  remains  the  sect  has  some- 
thing to  fear  ? Must  I be  annihilated  lest,  like  old  John  Zisca’s, 
my  skin  should  be  made  into  a drum  to  animate  Europe  to  eternal 
battle  against  a tyranny  that  threatens  to  overwhelm  all  Europe  and 
all  the  human  race  ? 

In  one  thing  I can  excuse  the  Duke  of  Bedford  for  his  attack 
upon  me  and  my  mortuary  pension.  He  cannot  readily  compre- 
hend the  transaction  he  condemns.  What  I have  obtained  is  the 
fruit  of  no  bargain,  the  production  of  no  intrigue,  the  result  of  no 
compromise,  the  effect  of  no  solicitation.  The  first  suggestion  of  it 
never  came  from  me,  mediately  or  immediately,  to  his  Majesty  or 
any  of  his  ministers.  It  was  long  known  that  the  instant  my  en- 
gagements would  permit  it,  and  before  the  heaviest  of  all  calamities 
had  for  ever  condemned  me  to  obscurity  and  sorrow,  I had  resolved 
on  a total  retreat.  I had  executed  that  design.  I was  entirely  out 
of  the  way  of  serving  or  of  hurting  any  statesman  or  any  party 
when  the  ministers  so  generously  and  so  nobly  carried  into  effect 
the  spontaneous  bounty  of  the  Crown.  Both  descriptions  have  acted 
as  became  them.  When  I could  no  longer  serve  them,  the  ministers 
have  considered  my  situation.  When  I could  no  longer  hurt  them, 
the  revolutionists  have  trampled  on  my  infirmity.  My  gratitude,  I 
trust,  is  equal  to  the  manner  in  which  the  benefit  was  conferred.  It 
came  to  me,  indeed,  at  a time  of  life  and  in  a state  of  mind  and 
body  in  which  no  circumstance  of  fortune  could  afford  me  any  real 
pleasure.  But  this  was  no  fault  in  the  royal  donor  or  in  his  minis- 
ters, who  were  pleased  in  acknowledging  the  merits  of  an  invalid 
servant  of  the  public,  to  assuage  the  sorrows  of  a desolate  old  man. 

Loose  libels  ought  to  be  passed  by  in  silence  and  contempt.  By 


3°8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


me  they  have  been  so  always.  I knew  that  as  long  as  I remained 
in  public  1 should  live  down  the  calumnies  of  malice  and  the  judg- 
ment of  ignorance.  If  I happened  to  be  now  and  then  in  the 
wrong,  as  who  is  not,  like  all  other  men,  I must  bear  the  consequence 
of  my  faults  and  my  mistakes.  The  libels  of  the  present  day  are 
just  of  the  same  stuff  as  the  libels  of  the  past.  But  they  derive 
an  importance  from  the  rank  of  the  persons  they  come  from  and 
the  gravity  of  the  place  where  they  were  uttered.  In  some  way  or 
another  I ought  to  take  some  notice  of  them.  To  assert  myself 
thus  traduced  is  not  vanity  or  arrogance.  It  is  a demand  of  justice  ; 
it  is  a demonstration  of  gratitude.  If  I am  unworthy,  the  minis- 
ters are  worse  than  prodigal.  On  that  hypothesis  I perfectly  agree 
with  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 

But  I decline  his  Grace’s  jurisdiction  as  a judge.  I challenge  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  as  a juror  to  pass  upon  the  value  of  my  services. 
Whatever  his  natural  parts  may  be,  I cannot  recognize  in  his  few 
and  idle  years  the  competence  to  judge  of  my  long  and  laborious 
life.  If  I can  help  it,  he  shall  not  be  on  the  inquest  of  my  quantum 
meruit.  Poor  rich  man  ! he  can  hardly  know  anything  of  public 
industry  in  its  exertions,  or  can  estimate  its  compensations  when  its 
work  is  done.  I have  no  doubt  of  his  Grace’s  readiness  in  all  the 
calculations  of  vulgar  arithmetic,  but  I shrewdly  suspect  that  he 
is  little  studied  in  the  theory  of  moral  proportions,  and  has  never 
learned  the  rule  of  three  in  the  arithmetic  of  policy  and  state. 

His  Grace  is  pleased  to  aggravate  my  guilt  by  charging  my  ac- 
ceptance of  his  Majesty’s  grant  as  a departure  from  my  ideas  and 
the  spirit  of  my  conduct  with  regard  to  economy.  If  it  be,  my 
ideas  of  economy  were  false  and  ill-founded.  But  they  are  the 
Duke  of  Bedford’s  ideas  of  economy  I have  contradicted,  and  not 
my  own.  If  he  means  to  allude  to  certain  bills  brought  in  by  me 
on  a message  from  the  throne  in  1782,  I tell  him  that  there  is  no- 
thing in  my  conduct  that  can  contradict  either  the  letter  or  the 
spirit  of  those  acts.  Does  he  mean  the  Pay-Office  Act  ? I take  it 
for  granted  he  does  not.  The  act  to  which  he  alludes  is,  I sup- 
pose, the  Establishment  Act.  I greatly  doubt  whether  his  Grace 
has  ever  read  the  one  or  the  other.  The  first  of  these  systems  cost 
me,  with  every  assistance  which  my  then  situation  gave  me,  pains 
incredible.  I found  an  opinion  common  through  all  the  offices  and 
general  in  the  public  at  large  that  it  would  prove  impossible  to  re- 
form and  methodize  the  office  of  Paymaster-General.  I undertook 


Edmund  Burke. 


3°9 


it,  however,  and  I succeeded  in  my  undertaking.  Whether  the 
military  service  or  whether  the  general  economy  of  our  finance  have 
profited  by  that  act  I leave  to  those  who  are  acquainted  with  the 
army  and  with  the  treasury  to  judge. 

I was  not,  like  his  Grace  of  Bedford,  swaddled  and  rocked  and 
dandled  into  a legislation  ; “ Nitor  in  adversum  ” is  the  motto  for 
a man  like  me.  I possessed  not  one  of  the  qualities,  nor  cultivated 
one  of  the  arts,  that  recommend  men  to  the  favor  and  protection  of 
the  great.  I was  not  made  for  a minion  or  a tool.  As  little  did  I 
follow  the  trade  of  winning  the  hearts  by  imposing  on  the  under- 
standings of  the  people.  At  every  step  of  my  progress  in  life  (for 
in  every  step  was  I traversed  and  opposed),  and  at  every  turnpike  I 
met,  I was  obliged  to  show  my  passport  and  again  and  again  to  prove 
my  sole  title  to  the  honor  of  being  useful  to  my  country  by  a proof 
that  I was  not  wholly  unacquainted  with  its  laws  and  the  whole 
system  of  its  interest,  both  abroad  and  at  home.  Otherwise  no 
rank,  no  toleration  even,  for  me.  I had  no  arts  but  manly  arts. 
On  them  I have  stood,  and,  please  God,  in  spite  of  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale,  to  the  last  gasp  I will  stand. 

His  Grace  may  think  as  meanly  as  he  will  of  my  deserts  in  the 
far  greater  part  of  my  conduct  in  life.  It  is  free  for  him  to  do  so. 
There  will  always  be  some  difference  of  opinion  in  the  value  of  po- 
litical services.  But  there  is  one  merit  of  mine  which  he,  of  all  men 
living,  ought  to  be  the  last  to  call  in  question.  I have  supported 
with  very  great  zeal,  and  I am  told  with  some  degree  of  success, 
those  opinions,  or,  if  his  Grace  likes  another  expression  better,  those 
old  prejudices  which  buoy  up  the  ponderous  mass  of  his  nobility, 
Wealth,  and  titles.  I have  omitted  no  exertion  to  prevent  him  and 
them  from  sinking  to  that  level  to  which  the  meretricious  French 
faction,  his  Grace  at  least  coquets  with,  omit  no  exertion  to  reduce 
both.  I have  done  all  I could  to  discountenance  their  enquiries 
into  the  fortunes  of  those  who  hold  large  portions  of  wealth  with- 
out any  apparent  merit  of  their  own.  I have  strained  every  nerve 
to  keep  the  Duke  of  Bedford  in  that  situation  which  alone  makes 
him  my  superior.  Your  Lordship  has  been  a witness  of  the  use  he 
makes  of  that  pre-eminence. 

The  awful  state  of  the  time,  and  not  myself  or  my  own  justifica- 
tion, is  my  true  object  in  what  I now  write,  or  in  what  I shall  ever 
write  or  say.  It  little  signifies  to  the  world  what  becomes  of  such 
things  as  me,  or  even  as  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 


310  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Why  will  his  Grace,  by  attacking  me,  force  me  reluctantly  to 
compare  my  little  merit  with  that  which  obtained  from  the  Crown 
those  prodigies  of  profuse  donation  by  which  he  tramples  on  the 
mediocrity  of  humble  and  laborious  individuals  ? I would,  willing- 
ly leave  him  to  the  Herald’s  College,  which  the  philosophy  of  the 
sans-culottes  (prouder  by  far  than  all  the  Garters  and  Narrays  and 
Clarencieux  and  Rouge  Dragons  that  ever  pranced  in  a procession 
of  what  his  friends  call  aristocrats  and  despots)  will  abolish  with 
contumely  and  scorn.  These  historians,  recorders,  and  blazoners 
of  virtues  and  arms  differ  wholly  from  that  other  description  of 
historians  who  never  assign  any  act  of  politicians  to  a good  motive. 
These  gentle  historians,  on  the  contrary,  dip  their  pens  in  nothing 
but  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  They  seek  no  further  for  merit 
than  the  preamble  of  a patent,  or  the  inscription  of  a tomb.  With 
them  every  man  created  a peer  is  first  a hero  ready  made.  They 
judge  of  every  man’s  capacity  for  office  by  the  offices  he  has  filled, 
and  the  more  offices  the  more  ability.  Every  general  officer  with 
them  is  a Marlborough  ; every  statesman  a Burleigh ; every  judge 
a Murray  or  a Yorke.  They  who,  when  alive,  were  laughed  at  or 
pitied  by  all  their  acquaintance  make  as  good  a figure  as  the  best  of 
them  in  the  pages  of  Guillim,  Edmondson,  and  Collins. 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  hopes  of  succession,  I 
should  have  been,  according  to  my  mediocrity  and  the  medi- 
ocrity of  the  age  I live  in,  a sort  of  founder  of  a family.  I should 
have  left  a son  who,  in  all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit  can  be 
viewed,  in  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste,  in  honor,  in 
generosity,  in  humanity,  and  in  every  liberal  sentiment  and  every 
liberal  accomplishment,  would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior  to 
the  Duke  of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those  whom,  he  traces  in  his  line. 
His  Grace  very  soon  would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in  his  attack 
upon  that  provision  which  belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me.  He 
would  soon  have  supplied  every  deficiency  and  symmetrized  every 
disproportion.  It  would  not  have  been  for  that  successor  to  resort 
to  any  stagnant,  wasting  reservoir  of  merit  in  me  or  in  my  ancestry. 
He  had  in  himself  a salient  living  spring  of  generous  and  manly 
action  ; every  day  he  lived  he  would  have  repurchased  the  bounty 
of  the  Crown,  and  ten  times  more  if  ten  times  more  he  had  re- 
ceived. He  was  made  a public  creature,  and  had  no  enjoyment 
whatever  but  in  the  performance  of  some  duty.  At  this  exigent 
moment  the  loss  of  a finished  man  is  not  easily  supplied. 


Edmund  Burke . 


3 ii 

But  a Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to  resist,  and 
whose  wisdom  it  behooves  us  not  at  all  to  dispute,  has  ordained  it  in 
another  manner,  and  (whatever  my  querulous  weakness  might  sug- 
gest) a far  better.  The  storm  has  gone  over  me,  and  I lie  like  one 
of  those  old  oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  has  scattered  about  me. 
I am  stripped  of  all  my  honors ; I am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie 
prostrate  on  the  earth.  There,  and  prostrate  there,  I most  un- 
feignedly  recognize  the  divine  justice,  and,  in  some  degree,  submit 
to  it.  Bat  whilst  I humble  myself  before  G-od,  I do  not  know  that 
it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the  attacks  of  unjust  and  inconsiderate  men. 
The  patience  of  Job  is  proverbial.  After  some  of  the  convulsive 
struggles  of  our  irritable  nature,  he  submitted  himself  and  repented 
in  dust  and  ashes.  But  even  so  1 do  not  find  him  blamed  for 
reprehending,  and  with  a considerable  degree  of  verbal  asperity, 
those  ill-natured  neighbors  of  his  who  visited  his  dunghill  to  read 
moral,  political,  and  economical  lectures  on  his  misery.  I am 
alone.  1 have  none  to  meet  my  enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my 
Lord,  I greatly  deceive  myself  if  in  this  hard  season  I would  give  a 
peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fame  and  honor  in  the 
world.  This  is  the  appetite  of  but  a few.  It  is  a luxury;  it  is  a 
privilege  ; it  is  an  indulgence  for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But 
we  are  all  of  us  made  to  shun  disgrace  as  we  are  made  to  shrink 
from  pain,  and  poverty,  and  disease.  It  is  an  instinct,  and  under 
the  direction  of  evil,  instinct  is  always  in  the  right.  I live  in  an 
inverted  order.  They  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone 
before  me.  They  who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity  are  in 
the  place  of  ancestors. 

Pardon,  my  Lord,  the  feeble  garrulity  of  age.  At  my  years  we 
live  in  retrospect  alone ; and,  wholly  unfitted  for  the  society  of 
vigorous  life,  we  enjoy  the  best  balm  to  all  wounds — the  consolation 
of  friendship  in  those  only  whom  we  have  lost  for  ever. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  etc., 

Edmund  Burke. 


LETTER  TO  THE  CATHOLIC  ARCHBISHOP  OF  AIX.“ 

London,  July  15,  1791. 

Sir  : It  is  with  great  satisfaction  to  me  that  the  generous  victims 
of  injustice  and  tyranny  accept  in  good  part  the  homage  which  I 

14  The  warmest  friend  that  the  exiled  and  persecuted  Catholic  clergy  of  France  met  on 
reaching  the  shores  of  England  was  the  generous-hearted  Burke.  Through  the  Arch- 


312 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


have  offered  to  their  virtues.  It  is  a distinction  which  I would  not 
have  had  occasion  to  merit  from  the  clergy  of  France  in  the  time  of 
their  credit  and  splendor.  Your  Church,  the  intelligence  of  which 
was  the  ornament  of  the  Christian  world  in  its  prosperity,  is  now 
more  brilliant  in  the  moment  of  its  misfortunes  to  the  eyes  which 
are  capable  of  judging  of  it.  Never  did  so  great  a number  of  men 
display  a constancy  so  inflexible,  a disinterestedness  so  manifest,  a 
humility  so  magnanimous,  so  much  dignity  in  their  patience,  and 
so  much  elevation  in  their  sentiments  of  honor.  Ages  have  not 
furnished  so  many  noble  examples  as  France  has  produced  in  the 
space  of  two  years.  It  is  odious  to  search  in  antiquity  for  the  merit 
we  admire,  and  to  be  insensible  to  that  which  passes  under  our 
eyes.  France  is  in  a deplorable  condition,  both  in  its  political  and 
moral  state ; but  it  seems  to  be  in  the  order  of  the  general  economy 
of  the  world  that  when  the  greatest  and  most  detestable  vices  domi- 
neer, the  most  eminent  and  distinguished  virtues  raise  their  heads 
more  proudly.  Such  is  not  the  time  for  mediocrity.  We  may  have 
some  diversity  in  our  opinions,  but  we  have  no  difference  in  princi- 
ples. There  is  but  one  kind  of  honor  and  virtue  in  the  world ; it 
consists  in  sacrificing  every  other  consideration  to  the  sentiments  of 
our  duty,  of  right,  and  of  piety.  It  is  this  which  the  clergy  of  France 
have  done. 

One  thing  I see  distinctly,  because  the  bishops  of  France  have 
proved  it  by  their  example,  and  that  is  that  they  have  made  known 
to  all  the  orders  and  to  all  the  classes  of  citizens  the  advantages 
which  even  religion  can  derive  from  the  alliance  of  its  own  proper 
dignity  with  the  character  which  illustrious  birth  and  the  sentiment 
of  honor  gives  to  man. 

I do  not  know  if  it  is  to  the  complaisance  of  your  Lordship  that 
I owe  the  chefs-d'oeuvre  of  ingenuity,  intelligence,  and  superior 
eloquence,  varied  as  the  occasions  require  with  different  dis- 
courses and  letters,  which  I from  time  to  time  receive.  They 
are  the  works  of  a great  statesman,  of  a great  prelate,  and  of  a man 
versed  in  the  science  of  administration.  We  cannot  be  astonished 
that  the  state,  the  clergy,  the  finances,  and  the  trade  of  the  king- 
dom should  be  ruined  when  the  author  of  these  works,  instead  of 
having  an  important  share  in  the  councils  of  his  country,  is  perse- 
cuted and  undone.  The  proscription  of  such  men  is  enough  to 

bishop  of  Aix  the  Bishops  of  France  conveyed  their  thanks  to  him,  m reply  to  which 
the  great  statesman  wrote  the  above. 


Edmund  Burke . 


313 


cover  a whole  people  with  eternal  reproach.  Those  who  persecute 
them  have  by  this  one  act  done  more  injury  to  their  country  in  de- 
priving it  of  their  services  than  a million  of  men  of  their  own 
standard  can  ever  repair,  even  when  they  shall  be  disposed  to  build 
upon  the  ruins  they  have  made. 

Maintain,  sir,  the  courage  which  you  have  hitherto  shown,  and 
be  persuaded  that,  though  the  world  is  not  worthy  of  you  and  your 
colleagues,  we  are  not  insensible  of  the  honor  which  you  do  our 
common  nature.  I have  the  honor  to  be,  Trery  truly, 

Edmund  Burke. 

LETTER  TO  DR.  FRANKLIN.16 

London,  Charles  Street,  February  28,  1782. 
Dear  Sir:  Your  most  obliging  letter  demanded  an  early  answer. 
It  has  not  received  the  acknowledgment  so  justly  due  to  it.  But 
Providence  has  well  supplied  my  deficiencies,  and  the  delay  of  an- 
swer has  made  it  much  more  satisfactory  than  at  the  time  of  my 
receipt  of  your  letter  I dared  to  promise  myself  it  could  be. 

I congratulate  you,  as  the  friend  of  America,  on  the  resolution  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  carried  by  a majority  of  nineteen,  at  two 
o’clock  this  morning,  in  a very  full  house.  It  was  the  declaration  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty-four:  I think  it  was  the  opinion  of  the  whole. 
I trust  it  will  lead  to  a speedy  peace  between  the  two  branches  of 
the  English  nation,  perhaps  to  a general  peace,  and  that  our  happi- 
ness may  be  an  introduction  to  that  of  the  world  at  large.  I most 
sincerely  congratulate  you  on  the  event. 

I wish  I could  say  that  I had  accomplished  my  commission. 
Difficulties  remain.  But  as  Mr.  Laurens  is  released  from  his  con- 
finement, and  has  recovered  his  health  tolerably,  he  may  wait,  I 
hope,  without  a deal  of  inconvenience,  for  the  final  adjustment  of 
his  troublesome  business.  He  is  an  exceedingly  agreeable  and 
honorable  man.  I am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  honor  of  his 
acquaintance.  He  speaks  of  you  as  I do,  and  is  perfectly  sensible 
of  your  warm  and  friendly  interposition  in  his  favor. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  with  the  highest  possible  esteem  and  regard, 
dear  sir,  your  most  faithful  and  obedient  servant, 

Edmund  Burke. 

16  This  letter  was  in  answer  to  one  from  Franklin  requesting  Burke  to  interest  himself 
in  negotiating  the  exchange  of  Henry  Laurens,  then  in  the  Tower,  for  Gen.  Burgoyne. 
As  will  be  seen,  it  announces  the  happy  termination  of  the  long  and  gallant  struggle  of 
America  for  complete  independence. 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


“ Whatever  Sheridan  has  done  or  chosen  to  do  has  been,  par  excellence , always 
the  best  of  its  kind.  He  has  written  the  best  comedy,  the  best  opera,  the  best 
farce,  the  best  address,  and,  to  crown  all,  delivered  the  very  best  oration  ever 
conceived  or  heard  in  this  country.’’ — Lord  Byron. 

‘ ‘ His  mind  was  an  essence  compounded  with  art 

From  the  finest  and  best  of  all  other  men’s  powers  ; 

He  ruled  like  a wizard  the  world  of  the  heart, 

And  called  up  its  sunshine  or  drew  down  its  showers.  ” 

— Moore. 

RICHARD  BRIYSLEY  SHERIDAN,  one  of  the  most  singularly 
gifted  men  of  modern  times,  was  born  in  Dorset*  Street,  Dub- 
lin, in  1751.  He  belonged  to  a family  which  appeared  to  possess 
an  hereditary  monopoly  of  genius.  His  grandfather  was  a great 
wit,  classical  scholar,  and  friend  of  Swift.  His  father,  Thomas 
Sheridan,  was  a noted  actor,  elocutionist,  and  lexicographer,  whose 
“ General  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language  ” was,  we  believe, 
the  first  work  in  which  careful  attention  was  given  to  the  best  pro- 
nunciation of  our  language.  Richard’s  mother  was  also  a lady  of 
uncommon  mental  gifts  and  rare  personal  attractions.  In  her  day 
she  was  a writer  of  distinction. 

The  lad  in  his  seventh  year  was  placed  under  the  tuition  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Whyte,  of  Grafton  Street,  Dublin.  Here  he  got  many  a 
sound  birching,  and  was  regarded  as  “ a most  impenetrable  dunce.”  1 
He  was  next  sent  to  Harrow,2  but  Richard  did  not  injure  himself 
much  by  overstudy.  Still,  he  contrived  to  win  the  affection,  and 
even  admiration,  of  the  whole  school  by  his  frank  and  genial  ways, 
and  by  the  occasional  gleams  of  superior  intellect  which  broke 
through  all  the  indolence  and  indifference  of  his  manner.3 

“ I saw  in  him,”  writes  the  celebrated  Dr.  Parr,  then  one  of  the 
teachers  in  Harrow,  “ vestiges  of  a superior  intellect.  His  eye,  his 

1 “ It  may  be  consoling,”  writes  Moore,  “ to  parents  who  are  in  the  first  crisis  of  im- 
patience at  the  sort  of  hopeless  stupidity  which  some  children  exhibit,  to  know  that  the 
dawn  of  Sheridan's  intellect  was  as  dull  and  unpromising  as  its  meridian  day  was 
bright.”— “ Memoirs  of  Sheridan.” 

2 A famous  English  academy. 

8 Stainforth,  “ Life  of  Sheridan.” 

314 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


315 


countenance,  his  general  manner,  were  striking.  His  answers  to 
any  common  question  were  prompt  and  acute.  We  knew  the 
esteem  and  even  admiration  which  somehow  or  other  all  his  school- 
fellows felt  for  him.  He  was  mischievous  enough,  but  his  pranks 
were  accompanied  by  a sort  of  vivacity  and  cheerfulness  which  de- 
lighted Sumner4  and  myself.”  5 

In  his  eighteenth  year  Richard  was  recalled  from  Harrow. 
Though  at  this  time  he  had  made  some  progress  in  Greek,  it  is 
said  he  was  unable  to  spell  English.  He  never  attended  any  uni- 
versity. The  limited  means  of  his  father,  who  then  resided  at 
Bath,  England,  would  not  permit  such  a step. 

Sheridan’s  life  henceforth  reads  more  like  a romance  than  a sober, 
matter-of-fact  biography.  He  began  it  as  a hopeless  literary  adven- 
turer. Yet  nothing  failed  him.  Position,  fame,  and  fortune  he 
grasped  at  as  if  they  were  his  birthright.  “ The  poor,  unknown 
youth,”  writes  Taine,  “ wretched  translator  of  an  unreadable  Greek 
sophist,  who  at  twenty  walked  about  Bath  in  a red  waistcoat  and  a 
cocked  hat,  destitute  of  hope  and  ever  conscious  of  the  emptiness  of 
his  pockets,  gained  the  heart  of  the  most  admired  beauty  and  musi- 
cian 6 of  her  time,  carried  her  off  from  ten  rich,  elegant,  titled 
adorers,  fought  with  the  best  hoaxed  of  the  ten,  beat  him,  and  car- 
ried by  storm  the  curiosity  of  the  public.  Then,  challenging  glory 
and  wealth,  he  placed  successively  on  the  stage  the  most  diverse  and 
the  most  applauded  dramas,  comedies,  farces,  opera,  serious  verse  ; 
he  bought  and  worked  a large  theatre  without  a farthing,  inaugu- 
rated a reign  of  successes  and  pecuniary  advantages,  and  led  a life 
of  elegance  amid  the  enjoyments  of  social  and  domestic  joys,  sur- 
rounded by  universal  admiration  and  wonder.  Thence,  aspiring  yet 
higher,  he  conquered  power,  entered  the  House  of  Commons, 
showed  himself  a match  for  the  first  orators,  opposed  Pitt,  accused 
Warren  Hastings,  supported  Fox,  sustained  with  eclat,  disinterest- 
edness, and  constancy  a most  difficult  and  generous  part,  became 
one  of  three  or  four  of  the  most  noted  men  in  England,  an  equal  of 
the  greatest  lords,  the  friend  of  a royal  prince,  in  the  end  Re- 

4 Dr.  Sumner,  the  Principal. 

6 Letter  on  Sheridan’s  youth. 

6 The  celebrated  Miss  Linley,  who  was  but  sixteen  when  Sheridan  first  met  her.  She 
is  said  to  have  possessed  exquisite  personal  charms,  and,  in  spite  of  her  profession  as  an 
actress,  maintained  a character  of  no  ordinary  beauty  and  brightness.  To  Sheridan  she 
proved  a wise,  devoted  wife.  After  her  death  Wilkes  wrote  that  she  was  *•  the  most  mo- 
dest, pleasing,  and  delicate  flower  he  had  ever  seen.” 


316 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


ceiver-General  of  the  Duchy  of  Cornwall  and  Treasurer  to  the  Fleet. 
In  every  career  he  took  the  lead.”  T 

Sheridan’s  principal  plays  are  “ The  Rivals” — produced  in  1775 — 
“ The  Duenna,”  “ The  School  for  Scandal,”  and  “ The  Critic,”  which 
appeared  during  the  five  following  years.  “ All  these  plays  are  in 
prose,  and  all,  with  the  exception  of  ‘ The  Duenna/  reflect  con- 
temporary manners.  In  the  creation  of  comic  character  and  the 
conduct  of  comic  dialogue  Sheridan  has  never  been  surpassed.  Ilis 
wit  flashes  evermore.  In  such  a play  as  ‘ The  Rivals ’ the  reader 
is  kept  in  a state  of  continual  hilarious  delight  by  a profusion  of 
sallies,  rejoinders,  blunders,  contrasts  which  seem  to  exhaust  all 
the  resources  of  the  ludicrous.  Mrs.  Malapropos  ‘ parts  of  speech’ 
will  raise  the  laughter  of  unborn  generations,  and  the  choleric, 
generous  old  father  will  never  find  a more  perfect  representation 
than  Sir  Anthony  Absolute.  In  the  evolution  of  plots  he  is  less 
happy  ; nevertheless,  in  this  respect  also  he  succeeded  admirably  in 
1 The  School  for  Scandal,’  which  is  by  common  consent  regarded  as 
the  most  perfect  of  his  plays,  and  is  still  an  established  favorite  in 
our  theatres.”  8 

The  “School  for  Scandal”  was  translated  into  German,  and 
some  years  ago  had  a good  run  in  the  cities  along  the  Rhine  and 
the  Danube.  The  highest  critics  agree  in  pronouncing  it  the  best 
comedy  in  the  English  language. 

“Sheridan,”  says  Hazlitt,  “has  been  justly  called  a dramatic 
star  of  the  first  magnitude ; and,  indeed,  among  the  comic  writers 
of  the  last  century  he  shines  like  Hesperus  among  the  lesser 
lights.”  9 

“The  dramas  of  Sheridan,”  writes  J.  W.  Croker,  “have  placed 
him  at  the  head  of  the  genteel  comedy  of  England.”  10 

Sheridan  made  his  first  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  the 
20th  of  November,  1780.  He  was  heard  with  particular  attention. 
Aiter  he  had  spoken  he  went  to  the  gallery  to  his  friend,  Woodfall, 
and,  with  much  anxiety,  asked  what  he  thought  of  this  first  at- 
tempt. Woodfall,  with  unusual  frankness,  remarked  that  he  did  not 
think  Parliamentary  speaking  was  in  Sheridan’s  line.  For  a mo- 
ment the  latter  rested  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  then  warmly 
exclaimed  : “ It  is  in  me,  and  it  shall  come  out ! ” 

* “ The  History  of  English  Literature.” 

8 Arnold's  “Manual  of  English  Literature,  Historical  and  Critical.” 

8 “ Lectures  on  the  English  Comic  Writers,”  Lecture  viii. 

The  London  Quarterly  Review.  1826. 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  317 

The  author  of  “The  School  for  Scandal”  was,  however,  seven 
years  in  Parliament  before  he  gained  any  reputation  as  a great  ora- 
tor. The  genius  and  energy  of  Edmund  Burke  brought  on  the 
famous  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings.  This  was  the  event 
that  called  forth  all  the  latent  ability,  dazzling  wit,  scorching  sar- 
casm, and  splendid  eloquence  of  Sheridan.  To  him  was  allotted 
the  task  of  bringing  forward  in  the  House  of  Commons  the  charge 
relating  to  the  spoliation  of  the  Begum  Princesses  of  Oude.  This 
speech  was  delivered  on  the  7th  of  February,  1787.  It  occupied 
five  hours  and  a half  in  the  delivery.  Burke  declared  it  to  be 
“the  most  astonishing  effort  of  eloquence,  argument,  and  wit 
united  of  which  there  was  any  record  or  tradition.”  Fox  said  “all 
that  he  had  ever  heard,  all  that  he  had  ever  read,  when  compared 
with  it,  dwindled  into  nothing,  and  vanished  like  vapor  before  the 
sun.”  And  even  Pitt  acknowledged  “that  it  surpassed  all  the  elo- 
quence of  ancient  and  modern  times,  and  possessed  everything  that 
genius  or  art  could  furnish  to  agitate  or  control  the  human  mind.” 
Unhappily,  this  masterjnece  of  Sheridan’s  eloquence  was  poorly  re- 
ported, so  much  so  that  Lord  Macaulay  remarks  that  “it  may  be 
said  to  be  wholly  lost,  but  which  was  without  doubt  the  most  elab- 
orately brilliant  of  all  the  productions  of  his  ingenious  mind.”  11 

Sheridan’s  closing  speech  against  Hastings  was  delivered  in  West- 
minster Hall  on  the  3d,  6th,  10th,  and  13th  of  June,  1788.  On 
the  very  last  night  a remarkable  evidence  of  his  unrivalled  ability 
— an  honor  such  as  no  man  in  Europe  or  America,  past  or  present, 
can  claim — was  exhibited.  “ The  galleries  of  the  English  House  of 
Lords  were  filled  to  overflowing  to  hear  what  all  expected  would  be 
a masterpiece  of  eloquence.  Peers  and  peeresses  were  glad  to  obtain 
seats  early  in  the  day,  in  which  they  continued  nearly  the  entire 
night,  tumultuously  overcrowded.  On  the  same  night  his  play, 
‘ The  School  for  Scandal,’  the  best  comedy  on  the  British  stage, 
was  playing  at  one  theatre,  and  his  opera,  ‘ The  Duenna,’  the 
best  in  its  line  on  the  stage,  was  performing  at  another,  while  the 
gifted  author  was  himself  delivering  to  the  entranced  British 
senate  the  most  eloquent  harangue  ever  delivered  within  its 
walls.”  12 

Sheridan’s  conversational  powers  were  remarkable.  His  wit  and 
humor  were  only  equalled  by  his  good  temper,  and  he  was  regarded 


11  “ Essays. 


1*2  Mooney,  “History  of  Ireland.” 


3 1 8 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 

as  the  delight  of  the  social  circles  in  which  he  moved.  Fox  de- 
clared that  he  was  the  wittiest  man  he  had  ever  known.  Indeed, 
men  spent  whole  nights  in  listening  to  him. 

On  one  occasion  the  author  of  ‘ ‘ The  School  for  Scandal 99  made 
his  appearance  in  a new  pair  of  hoots.  These  attracted  the  notice 
of  some  of  his  friends.  “Now  guess,”  said  he,  “how  I came  by 
these  boots.”  Many  'probable  guesses  then  took  place.  “No,’’ 
said  Sheridan,  “ you  have  not  hit  it,  and  never  will ; I bought  them 
and  paid  for  them.” 

One  day  Sheridan  met  two  royal  dukes  in  St.  James  Street,  and 
the  younger  flippantly  remarked:  “I  say,  Sherry,  we  have  just 
been  discussing  whether  you  are  a greater  fool  or  rogue.  What  is 
your  opinion,  old  boy  ? ” Sheridan  bowed,  smiled,  and,  as  he  took 
each  of  them  by  the  arm,  quietly  replied  • “ Why,  faith,  I believe 
I’m  between  both  ! ” 

Some  mention  having  been  made  in  his  presence  of  a tax  upon 
milestones,  he  said  : “ Such  a tax  would  be  unconstitutional,  as  they 
were  a race  that  could  not  meet  to  remonstrate.” 

Once,  being  on  a Parliamentary  committee,  Sheridan  arrived  when 
all  the  members  were  assembled  and  seated,  and  about  to  commence 
business.  In  vain  he  looked  around  for  a seat,  and  then,  with  a 
bow  and  a quaint  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  said:  “ Will  any  gentleman 
move  that  I might  take  the  chair  ? ” 

Hearing  that  Gifford,  the  somewhat  savage  editor  of  The  Quar- 
terly Review,  had  boasted  of  his  power  of  conferring  and  distribut- 
ing literary  reputation,  Sheridan  remarked:  “Very  true;  and  in 
the  present  instance  he  has  done  it  so  thoroughly  that  he  has  none 
left  for  himself  I 

In  a good-natured  way  he  one  day  remarked  to  a creditor  who 
demanded  instant  payment  of  a long-standing  debt  with  interest : 
“ My  dear  sir,  you  know  it  is  not  my  interest  to  pay  the  principal, 
nor  is  it  my  principle  to  pay  the  interest. 99 

Lord  Lauderdale  happening  to  say  that  he  would  repeat  some 
good  thing  of  Sheridan’s,  the  latter  said  : “ Pray  don’t ; a joke  in 
your  mouth  is  no  laughing  matter  I 

The  brilliant  but  unhappy  Sheridan’s  parliamentary  career  drew 
to  a close  in  1812.  Among  the  last  sentences  uttered  by  him  in 
the  House  were  the  following  brave  and  beautiful  words  : “ My  ob- 
jection to  the  present  ministry  is  that  they  are  avowedly  arrayed 
and  embodied  against  a principle — that  of  concession  to  the  Catho- 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan, 


319 


lies  of  Ireland  19 — which  I think,  and  must  always  think,  essential 
to  the  safety  of  this  empire.  I will  never  give  my  vote  to  any  Ad- 
ministration that  opposes  the  question  of  Catholic  emancipation. 
I will  not  consent  to  receive  a furlough  upon  that  particular  ques- 
tion, even  though  a ministry  were  carrying  every  other  that  I 
wished.  In  line,  I think  the  situation  of  Ireland  a paramount  con- 
sideration. If  they  were  to  be  the  last  words  I should  ever  utter  in 
this  House,  I should  say  : ‘ Be  just  to  Ireland,  as  you  value  your 
own  honor ; be  just  to  Ireland,  as  you  value  your  own  peace.’  ” 

Parliament  was  dissolved  in  September,  1812.  Sheridan  again 
went  to  the  polls,  but  was  defeated.  This  completed  his  ruin. 
The  success  and  fortune  which  had  smiled  on  his  younger  years 
frowned  on  his  old  age.  For  him  all  ordinary  rules  were  reversed. 
At  forty-four  debts  began  to  shower  upon  him ; at  sixty  he  was  a 
hopeless  bankrupt.  What  was  the  cause  of  his  misfortune  P The 
truth  must  be  told  ; poor  Sheridan  had  drank  to  excess.  The 
bottle  had  blighted  his  bright  genius  and  his  hopeful  life.  He — the 
gifted  and  brilliant  Sheridan — closed  his  last  days  in  the  shades  of 
poverty  and  neglect.  Oh  ! what  a lesson.  Forsaken  by  the  false 
great  ones  who  had  basked  around  him  in  the  sunshine  of  pros- 
perity, Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  died  in  London  on  July  7,  1816, 
in  his  sixty-fifth  year.  The  titled  knaves  who  had  heartlessly 
shunned  the  great  man’s  death-bed  now  crowded  round  to  partake 
of  his  glory  as  he  was  laid  in  the  grave.  In  the  worldly  sense  of  the 
word,  his  funeral  was  “ grand.”  Barons  and  lords,  marquises  and 
dukes  followed  in  the  train.  Moore  wrote  : 

‘ Oh  ! it  sickens  the  heart  to  see  bosoms  so  hollow 

And  friendships  so  false  in  the  great  and  high  born  ; 

To  think  what  a long  line  of  titles  may  follow 
The  relics  of  him  who  died  friendless  and  lorn  ! 

“ How  proud  they  can  press  to  the  funeral  array 

Of  him  whom  they  shunned  in  his  sickness  and  sorrow — 

How  bailiffs  may  seize  his  last  blanket 14  to-day 
Whose  pall  shall  be  held  up  by  nobles  to-morrow  ! ” 

He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  in  the  Poet’s  Corner. 

Sheridan,  when  young,  possessed  a manly,  handsome  counte- 

'3  Sheridan,  it  must  be  remembered,  was  not  a Catholic. 

14  “A  sheriff’s  officer  arrested  the  dying  man  in  his  bed,  and  was  about  to  carry  him  off 
in  his  blankets,  when  Doctor  Bain  interfered,  and  by  threatening  the  officer  with  the  re- 
sponsibility he  must  incur  if  his  prisoner  should  expire  on  the  way,  averted  this  out- 
rage.”—Stainforth’s  “Life  of  Sheridan.” 


320  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

nance,  but  in  bis  later  years  his  eyes  were  the  only  testimonials  of 
beauty  that  remained  to  him.  In  person  he  was  about  the  middle 
size,  strong,  and  well  proportioned. 

Lord  Byron’s  monody  on  Sheridan  terminates  Hius  : 

“ Long'  shall  we  seek  his  likeness,  long  in  vain, 

And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain, 

Sighing  that  Nature  formed  but  one  such  man, 

And  broke  the  die  in  moulding  Sheridan  ! ” 

We  cannot  better  conclude  this  sketch  than  in  the  wise  and  elo- 
quent words  of  his  illustrious  countrywoman,  the  Nun  of  Kenmare: 
“ Had  not  Sheridan’s  besetting  sin  degraded  and  incapacitated  him, 
it  is  probable  he  would  have  been  Prime  Minister  on  the  death  of  Fox. 
At  the  early  age  of  forty  he  was  a confirmed  drunkard.  The  master 
mind  which  had  led  a senate  was  clouded  over  by  the  fumes  of  an 
accursed  spirit;  the  brilliant  eyes  that  had  captivated  a million 
hearts  were  dimmed  and  bloodshot ; the  once  noble  brain,  which 
had  used  its  hundred  gifts  with  equal  success  and  ability,  was  de- 
prived of  all  power  of  acting  ; the  tongue  whose  potent  spell  had 
entranced  thousands  was  scarcely  able  to  articulate.  Alas ! and  a 
thousand  times  alas  ! that  man  can  thus  mar  his  Maker’s  work,  and 
stamp  ruin  and  wretchedness  where  a wealth  of  mental  power  had 
been  given  to  reign  supreme  ! ” 15 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHERIDAN’S  WORKS. 

DRY  BE  THAT  TEAR. 

Dry  be  that  tear,  my  gentlest  love, 

Be  hush’d  that  struggling  sigh, 

Nor  seasons,  day,  nor  fate  shall  prove 
More  fixed,  more  true  than  I. 

Hush’d  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear, 
Cease  boding  doubt,  cease  anxious  fear— 
Dry  be  that  tear. 

Ask’st  thou  how  long  my  love  will  stay, 
When  all  that’s  new  is  past  ? 

How  long,  ah  ! Delia  ? 16  can  I say 
How  long  my  life  will  last  ? 

16  “ Illustrated  History  of  Ireland.” 

18  M ss  Elizabeth  Linley,  whom  he  afterwards  married. 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan . 


321 


Dry  be  that  tear,  be  hush’d  that  sigh, 
At  least  I’ll  love  thee  till  I die — 

Hush’d  be  that  sigh. 

And  does  that  thought  affect  thee  too, 
The  thought  of  Sylvio’s  1T  death — 
That  he  who  only  breathed  for  you 
Must  yield  that  faithful  breath  ? 
Hush’d  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear, 
Nor  let  us  lose  our  heaven  here — 

Dry  be  that  tear. 


10  THE  RECORDING  ANGEL. 

Cherub  of  Heaven  that  from  thy  secret  stand 
Dost  note  the  follies  of  each  mortal  here, 

Oh  ! if  Eliza’s  18  steps  employ  thy  hand. 

Blot  the  sad  legend  with  a mortal  tear. 

Nor  when  she  errs,  through  passion’s  wild  extreme, 
Mark  then  her  course,  nor  heed  each  trifling  wrong  ; 
Nor  when  her  sad  attachment  is  her  theme 
Note  down  the  transports  of  her  erring  tongue. 

But  when  she  sighs  for  sorrow  not  her  own, 

Let  that  dear  sigh  to  mercy’s  cause  be  given, 

And  bear  that  tear  to  her  Creator’s  throne 
Which  glistens  in  the  eye  upraised  to  Heaven  ! 


THE  LEARNED  (!)  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  MRS.  MALAPROP  AND  SIR 
ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

FROM  “THE  RIVALS,”  ACT  I.  SCENE  II. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  and  old  Sir  Anthony  enter  Lydia’s  room. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  There,  Sir  Anthony,  there  sits  the  deliberate 
simpleton  who  wants  to  disgrace  her  family  and  lavish  herself  on  a 
fellow  not  worth  a shilling. 

Lydia  {Mrs.  Malaprop’ s niece).  Madam,  I thought  you  once — 
Mrs,  Malaprop.  You  thought , miss  ! I don’t  know  any  busi- 


17  Sheridan. 


18  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Sheridan,  n4e  Linley. 


322  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

ness  you  have  to  think  at  all ; thought  does  not  become  a young 
woman.  But  the  point  we  would  request  of  you  is  that  you  will 
promise  to  forget  this  fellow — to  illiterate  him,  I say,  quite  from 
your  memory. 

Lydia.  Ah  ! madam,  our  memories  are  independent  of  our  wills. 
It  is  not  so  easy  to  forget. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  But  I say  it  is,  miss;  there  is  nothing  on  earth 
so  easy  as  to  forget,  if  a person  chooses  to  set  about  it.  I’m  sure  I 
have  as  much  forgot  your  poor,  dear  uncle  as  if  he  had  never 
existed ; and  I thought  it  my  duty  so  to  do ; and  let  me  tell  you, 
Lydia,  these  violent  memories  don’t  become  a young  woman. 

Sir  Anthony.  Why,  sure  she  don’t  pretend  to  remember  what 
she’s  ordered  not ! — ay,  this  comes  of  her  reading. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  Now,  don’t  attempt  to  extirpate  yourself  from 
the  matter ; you  know  I have  proof  controvertible  of  it.  But  tell 
me,  will  you  promise  to  do  as  you’re  bid  ? Will  you  take  a hus- 
band of  your  friend’s  choosing  ? 

Lydia.  Madam,  I must  tell  you  plainly  that,  had  I no  pre- 
ference for  any  one  else,  the  choice  you  have  made  would  be  my 
aversion. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  What  business  have  you,  miss,  with  preference 
and  aversion  ? They  don’t  become  a young  woman;  and  you  ought 
to  know  that,  as  both  always  wear  off,  ’tis  safest  in  matrimony  to 
begin  with  a little  aversion.  I am  sure  I hated  your  poor,  dear 
uncle  before  marriage  as  if  he’d  been  a blackamoor  ; and  yet,  miss, 
you  are  sensible  of  what  a wife  I made  ; and  when  it  pleased  Heaven 
to  release  me  from  him  ’tis  unknown  what  tears  I shed.  But  sup- 
pose we  were  going  to  give  you  another  choice,  will  you  promise  us 
to  give  up  this  Beverley  ? 

Lydia.  Could  I belie  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  give  that  promise, 
my  actions  would  certainly  as  far  belie  my  words. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  Take  yourself  to  your  room.  You  are  fit  com- 
pany for  nothing  but  your  ill-humors. 

Lydia.  Willingly,  ma’am.  I cannot  change  for  the  worse. 

\Exit  Lydia .] 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  There’s  a little  intricate  hussy  for  you  ! 

Sir  Anthony.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  ma’am ; all  this  is 
the  natural  consequence  of  teaching  girls  to  read.  Had  I a thou- 
sand daughters,  confound  it  ! I’d  as  soon  have  them  taught  the 
black  art  as  their  alphabet. 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  323 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  Nay,  nay.  Sir  Anthony ; you  are  an  absolute 
misanthropy. 

Sir  Anthony.  In  my  way  hither,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I observed 
your  niece’s  maid  coming  from  a circulating  library.  She  had  a 
book  in  each  hand ; they  were  half-bound  volumes  with  marble 
covers.  From  that  moment  I guessed  how  full  of  duty  I should  see 
her  mistress. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  Those  are  vile  places,  indeed. 

Sir  Anthony.  Madam,  a circulating  library  in  a town  is  an 
evergreen  tree  of  diabolical  knowledge.  It  blossoms  through  the 
year.  And  depend  on  it,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  that  they  who  are  so  fond 
of  handling  the  leaves  will  long  for  the  fruit -at  last. 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  Fie,  fie,  Sir  Anthony ! you  surely  speak 
laconically. 

Sir  Anthony.  Why,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  moderation  now,  what 
would  you  have  a woman  know  ? 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  Observe  me,  Sir  Anthony.  I would  by  no 
means  wish  a daughter  of  mine  to  be  a progeny  of  learning ; I don’t 
think  so  much  learning  becomes  a young  woman.  For  instance,  I 
would  never  let  her  meddle  with  Greek,  or  Hebrew,  or  algebra,  or 
simony,  or  fluxions,  or  paradoxes,  or  such  inflammatory  branches  of 
learning ; neither  would  it  be  necessary  for  her  to  handle  any  of 
your  mathematical,  astronomical,  diabolical  instruments.  But,  Sir 
Anthony,  I would  send  her,  at  nine  years  old,  to  a boarding-school, 
in  order  to  learn  a little  ingenuity  and  artifice.  Then,  sir,  she 
should  have  a supercilious  knowledge  in  accounts ; and  as  she  grew 
up  I would  have  her  instructed  in  geometry,  that  she  might  know 
something  of  the  contagious  countries  ; but  above  all,  Sir  Anthony, 
she  should  be  mistress  of  orthodoxy,  that  she  might  not  misspell  and 
mispronounce  words  so  shamefully  as  girls  usually  do,  and  likewise 
that  she  might  reprehend  the  true  meaning  of  what  she  is  saying. 
This,  Sir  Anthony,  is  what  I would  have  a woman  know,  and  I 
don’t  think  there  is  a superstitious  article  in  it. 

Sir  Anthony.  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I will  dispute  the 
point  no  further  with  you ; though  I must  confess  that  you  are  a 
truly  moderate  and  polite  arguer,  for  almost  every  third  word  you 
say  is  on  my  side  of  the  question.  I have  hopes,  madam,  that  time 
will  bring  the  young  lady — 

Mrs.  Malaprop.  Oh  ! there’s  nothing  to  be  hoped  for  from  her 
She’s  as  headstrong  as  an  allegory  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile  ! 


324  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

EXTRACT  FROM  A SPEECH  ON  THE  IRISH  REBELLION. 

{Delivered  in  June , 1798.) 

What  ! when  conciliation  was  held  out  to  the  people  of  Ireland, 
was  there  any  discontent  ? When  the  government  of  Ireland  was 
agreeable  to  the  people,  was  there  any  discontent  ? After  the  pros- 
pect of  that  conciliation  was  taken  away — after  Lord  Fitzwilliam 
was  recalled — after  the  hopes  which  had  been  raised  were  blasted — 
when  the  spirit  of  the  people  was  beaten  down,  insulted,  despised, 
I will  ask  any  gentleman  to  point  out  a single  act  of  conciliation 
which  has  emanated  from  the  government  of  Ireland  ! On  the 
contrary,  has  not  that  country  exhibited  one  continual  scene  of  the 
most  grievous  oppression,  of  the  most  vexatious  proceedings  ; arbi- 
trary punishments  inflicted ; torture  declared  necessary  by  the 
highest  authority  in  the  sister  kingdom  next  to  that  of  the  Legis- 
lature ? 

And  do  gentlemen  say  that  the  indignant  spirit  which  is  aroused 
by  such  exercise  of  government  is  unprovoked?  Is  this  concilia- 
tion ? Is  this  lenity  ? Has  everything  been  done  to  avert  the  evils 
of  rebellion  ? It  is  the  fashion  to  say,  and  the  Address  holds  the 
same  language,  that  the  rebellion  which  now  rages  in  the  sister 
kingdom  has  been  owing  to  the  machinations  of  “wicked  men.v 
Agreeing  to  the  amendment  proposed,  it  was  my  first  intention  to 
move  that  these  words  should  be  omitted.  But,  sir,  the  fact  they 
assert  is  true.  It  is,  indeed,  to  the  measures  of  wicked  men  that  the 
deplorable  state  of  Ireland  is  to  be  imputed.  It  is  to  those  vncked 
ministers  who  have  broken  the  promises  they  held  out;  who  be- 
trayed the  party  they  seduced  to  their  views,  to  the  instruments  of 
the  foulest  treachery  that  ever  was  practised  against  any  people.  It 
is  to  those  ivicked  ministers  who  have  given  up  that  devoted  country 
to  plunder,  resigned  it  a prey  to  this  faction,  by  which  it  has  been 
so  long  trampled  upon,  and  abandoned  to  every  species  of  insult  and 
oppression  by  which  a country  was  ever  overwhelmed  or  the  spirit 
of  a people  insulted,  that  we  owe  the  miseries  into  which  Ireland  is 
plunged  and  the  dangers  by  which  England  is  threatened.  These 
evils  are  the^oings  of  wicked  ministers , and  applied  to  them,  the 
language  of  the  Address  records  a fatal  and  melancholy  truth  ! 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  325 

SPEECH  IN  OPPOSITION  TO  PITT’S  FIRST  INCOME-TAX. 

( Delivered  in  the  House  of  Commons . ) 

A wise  man,  sir,  it  is  said,  should  doubt  of  everything.  It  was 
this  maxim,  probably,  that  dictated  the  amiable  diffidence  of  the 
learned  gentleman  who  addressed  himself  to  the  chair  in  these  re- 
markable words  : “ I rise,  Mr.  Speaker,  if  I have  risen.”  Now,  to 
remove  all  doubts,  I can  assure  the  learned  gentleman 19  that  he 
actually  did  rise,  and  not  only  rose,  but  pronounced  an  able,  long, 
and  elaborate  discourse,  a considerable  portion  of  which  was  em- 
ployed in  an  erudite  dissertation  on  the  histories  of  Rome  and 
Carthage.  He  further  informed  the  House,  upon  the  authority  of 
Scipio,  that  we  could  never  conquer  the  enemy  until  we  were  first 
conquered  ourselves.  It  was  when  Hannibal  was  at  the  gates  of 
Rome  that  Scipio  had  thought  the  proper  moment  for  the  invasion 
of  Carthage — what  a pity  it  is  that  the  learned  gentleman  does  not 
go  with  this  consolation  and  the  authority  of  Scipio  to  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  aldermen  of  the  city  of  London  ! Lei  him  say  : “ Re- 
joice, my  friends  ! Bonaparte  is  encamped  at  Blackheath  ! What 
happy  tidings  ! ” For  here  Scipio  tells  us  you  may  every  moment 
expect  to  hear  of  Lord  Hawkesbury  making  his  triumphal  entry 
into  Paris.  It  would  be  whimsical  to  observe  how  they  would 
receive  such  joyful  news.  I should  like  to  see  such  faces  as  they 
would  make  on  that  occasion.  Though  I doubt  not  of  the  erudition 
of  the  learned  gentleman,  he  seems  to  me  to  have  somehow  con- 
founded the  stories  of  Hanno  and  Hannibal,  of  Scipio  and  the 
Romans.  He  told  us  that  Carthage  was  lost  by  the  parsimony  or 
envy  of  Hanno  in  preventing  the  necessary  supplies  for  the  war 
being  sent  to  Hannibal ; but  he  neglected  to  go  a little  further, 
and  to  relate  that  Hanno  accused  the  latter  of  having  been  am- 
bitious— 

“ Juvenem  furentem  cupidine  regni” — 

and  assured  the  Senate  that  Hannibal,  though  at  the  gates  of 
Rome,  was  no  less  dangerous  to  Hanno.  Be  this,  however,  as  it 
may,  is  there  any  Hanno  in  the  British  Senate  ? If  there  is,  nothing 
can  be  more  certain  than  that  all  the  efforts  and  remonstrances  of 
the  British  Hanno  could  not  prevent  a single  man  or  a single  guinea 
being  sent  for  the  supply  of  any  Hannibal  our  ministers  might 

19  Mr.  Perceval,  afterwards  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 


326  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

choose.  The  learned  gentleman  added,  after  the  defeat  of  Hanni- 
bal, Hanno  laughed  at  the  Senate  ; but  he  did  not  tell  us  what  he 
laughed  at.  The  advice  of  Hannibal  has  all  the  appearance  of 
being  a good  one : 

“Carthaginis  moenia  Romae  munerata.” 

If  they  did  not  follow  his  advice,  they  had  themselves  to  blame 
for  it. 

The  circumstance  of  a great,  extensive,  and  victorious  republic, 
breathing  nothing  but  war  in  the  long  exercise  of  its  most  success- 
ful operations,  surrounded  with  triumphs,  and  panting  for  fresh 
laurels,  to  be  compared,  much  less  represented  as  inferior,  to  the 
military  power  of  England,  is  childish  and  ridiculous.  What 
similitude  is  there  between  us  and  the  great  Roman  Republic  in  the 
height  of  its  fame  and  glory  ? Did  you,  sir,  ever  hear  it  stated 
that  the  Roman  bulwark  was  a naval  force  ? And,  if  not,  wThat 
comparison  can  there  be  drawn  between  their  efforts  and  power  ? 
This  kind  of  rhodomontade  declamation  is  finely  described  in  the 
language  of  one  of  the  Roman  poets  : 

“I,  demens,  curre  per  Alpes, 

Ut  pueris  placeas,  et  declamatio  fias.  ” 20 

— Juvenal , Sat.  x.,  166. 

The  proper  ground,  sir,  upon  which  this  bill  should  be  opposed 
I conceive  to  be  neither  the  uncertainty  of  the  criterion  nor  the 
injustice  of  the  retrospect,  though  they  would  be  sufficient.  The 
tax  itself  will  be  found  to  defeat  its  own  purposes.  The  amount 
which  an  individual  paid  to  the  assessed  taxes  last  year  can  be  no 
rule  for  what  he  shall  pay  in  future.  All  the  articles  by  which  the 
gradations  rose  must  be  laid  aside  and  never  resumed  again.  Cir- 
cumstanced as  the  country  is,  there  can  be  no  hope,  no  chance 
whatever,  that,  if  the  tax  succeeds,  it  ever  will  be  repealed.  Each 
individual,  therefore,  instead  of  putting  down  this  article  or  that, 
will  make  a final  and  general  retrenchment,  so  that  the  minister 
cannot  get  at  him  in  the  same  way  again  by  any  outward  sign 
which  might  be  used  as  a criterion  of  his  wealth.  These  retrench- 
ments cannot  fail  of  depriving  thousands  of  their  bread,  and  it  is 
vain  to  hold  out  the  delusion  of  modification  or  indemnity  to  the 

20  Go,  fight,  to  please  schoolboy  statesmen,  and  furnish  a declamation  for  a doctor 
learned  in  the  law. 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


327 


lower  orders.  Every  burthen  imposed  upon  the  rich  in  the  articles 
which  give  the  poor  employment  affects  them  not  the  less  for 
affecting  them  circuitously.  A coachmaker,  for  instance,  would 
willingly  compromise  with  the  minister,  to  give  him  a hundred 
guineas  not  to  lay  the  tax  upon  coaches ; for  though  the  hundred 
guineas  would  be  much  more  than  his  proportion  of  the  new  tax, 
yet  it  'would  be  much  better  for  him  to  pay  the  larger  contribution, 
than,  by  the  laying  down  of  coaches,  be  deprived  of  those  orders 
by  which  he  got  liis  bread.  The  same  is  the  case  with  watch- 
makers, which  I had  lately  an  opportunity  of  witnessing,  who,  by 
the  tax  imposed  last  year,  are  reduced  to  a state  of  ruin,  starvation, 
and  misery  ; yet,  in  proposing  that  tax,  the  minister  alleged  that 
the  poor  journeymen  could  not  be  affected,  as  the  tax  would  only 
operate  on  the  gentlemen  by  whom  the  watches  were  worn.  It  is 
as  much  cant,  therefore,  to  say  that,  by  bearing  heavily  on  the  rich, 
we  are  saving  the  lower  orders,  as  it  is  folly  to  suppose  we  can  come 
at  real  income  by  arbitrary  assessment  or  by  symptoms  of  opulence. 
There  are  three  ways  of  raising  large  sums  of  money  in  a state : 
First,  by  voluntary  contributions ; secondly,  by  a great  addition  of 
new  taxes  ; and,  thirdly,  by  forced  contributions,  which  is  the  worst 
of  all,  and  which  I aver  the  present  plan  to  be.  I am  at  present 
so  partial  to  the  first  mode  that  I recommend  the  further  considera- 
tion of  this  measure  to  be  postponed  for  a month,  in  order  to  make 
an  experiment  of-  what  might  be  effected  by  it.  For  this  purpose 
let  a bill  be  brought  in  authorizing  the  proper  persons  to  receive 
voluntary  contributions  ; and  I should  not  care  if  it  were  read  a 
third  time  to-night.  I confess,  however,  that  there  are  many 
powerful  reasons  which  forbid  us  to  be  too  sanguine  in  the  success 
even  of  this  measure.  To  awaken  a spirit  in  the  nation,  the  ex- 
ample should  come  from  the  first  authority  and  the  higher  depart- 
ments of  the  state.  It  is,  indeed,  seriously  to  be  lamented  that, 
whatever  may  be  the  burdens  or  distresses  of  the  people,  the  gov- 
ernment has  hitherto  never  shown  a disposition  to  contribute  any- 
thing, and  this  conduct  must  hold  out  a poor  encouragement  to 
others.  Heretofore  all  the  public  contributions  were  made  for  the 
benefit  and  profit  of  the  contributors,  in  a manner  inconceivable  to 
more  simple  nations.  If  a native  inhabitant  of  Bengal  or  China 
were  to  be  informed  that  in  the  west  of  Europe  there  was  a small 
island  which  in  the  course  of  one  hundred  years  contributed  four 
hundred  and  fifty  millions  to  the  exigencies  of  the  state,  and  that 


3 28  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

every  individual,  on  the  making  of  a demand,  vied  with  his  neigh- 
bor in  alacrity  to  subscribe,  he  would  immediately  exclaim:  “Mag- 
nanimous nation  ! you  must  surely  be  invincible.”  But  far  diffe- 
rent would  be  his  sentiments  if  informed  of  the  tricks  and  jobs 
attending  these  transactions,  where  even  loyalty  was  seen  cringing 
for  its  bonus  ! If  the  first  example  were  given  from  the  highest 
authority,  there  would  at  least  be  some  hopes  of  its  being  followed 
by  other  great  men  who  received  large  revenues  from  the  govern- 
ment. I would  instance  particularly  the  Teller  of  the  Exchequer, 
and  another  person  of  high  rank,  who  receive  from  their  offices 
£13,000  a year  more  in  war  than  they  do  in  peace.  The  last  noble 
lord  (Lord  Grenville)  had  openly  declared  for  perpetual  war,  and 
could  not  bring  his  mind  to  think  of  anything  like  a peace  with 
the  French.  Without  meaning  any  personal  disrespect,  it  was  the 
nature  of  the  human  mind  to  receive  a bias  from  such  circum- 
stances. So  much  was  this  acknowledged  in  the  rules  of  this 
House  that  any  person  receiving  a pension  or  high  employment 
from  his  Majesty  thereby  vacated  his  seat.  It  was  not,  therefore, 
unreasonable  to  expect  that  the  noble  lord  would  contribute  his 
proportion,  and  that  a considerable  one,  to  carry  on  the  war,  in 
order  to  show  the  world  his  freedom  from  such  a bias.  In  respect 
to  a near  relative  of  that  noble  lord,  I mean  the  noble  marquis 
(Marquis  of  Buckingham),  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  his  coming 
forward  liberally. 

I remember  when  I was  Secretary  to  the  Treasury  the  noble  mar- 
quis sent  a letter  there  requesting  that  his  office  might,  in  point  of 
fees  and  emoluments,  be  put  under  the  same  economical  regula- 
tions as  the  others.  The  reason  he  assigned  for  it  was,  “the  emolu- 
ments were  so  much  greater  in  time  of  war  than  peace  that  his 
conscience  would  be  hurt  by  feeling  that  he  received  them  from  the 
distresses  of  his  country.  Ho  retrenchment,  however,  took  place 
in  that  office.  If,  therefore,  the  marquis  thought  proper  to  bring 
the  arrears  since  that  time  also  from  his  conscience,  the  public  would 
be  at  least  £40,000  the  better  for  it.  By  a calculation  I have  made, 
which,  I believe,  cannot  be  controverted,  it  appears,  from  the  vast 
increase  of  our  burdens  during  the  war,  that  if  peace  were  to  be 
concluded  to-morrow  we  should  have  to  provide  taxes  annually  to 
the  amount  of  £28,000,000.  To  this  is  further  to  be  added  the  ex- 
pense of  that  system  by  which  Ireland  is  not  governed,  but  ground, 
insulted,  and  oppressed.  To  find  a remedy  for  all  these  incum- 


Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


329 


brances,  the  first  tiling  to  be  done  is  to  restore  the  credit  of  the 
bank,  which  has  failed,  as  well  in  credit  as  in  honor.  Let  it  no 
longer,  in  the  minister’s  hands,  remain  the  slave  of  political  circum- 
stances. It  must  continue  insolvent  till  the  connection  is  broken 
off.  I remember,  in  consequence  of  expressions  made  use  of  in  this 
House  upon  former  discussions,  when  it  was  thought  the  minister 
would  relinquish  that  unnatural  and  ruinous  alliance,  the  newspapers 
sported  a good  deal  with  the  idea  that  the  House  of  Commons  had 
forbid  the  bans  between  him  and  the  old  lady.21  Her  friends  had 
interfered,  it  was  said,  to  prevent  the  union,  as  it  was  well  known 
that  it  was  her  dower  he  sought,  and  not  her  person  nor  the  charms 
of  her  society. 

It  is,  sir,  highly  offensive  to  the  decency  and  sense  of  a commer- 
cial people  to  observe  the  juggle  between  the  minister  and  the  bank. 
The  latter  vauntingly  boasted  itself  ready  and  able  to  pay,  but  that 
the  minister  kindly  prevented,  and  put  a lock  and  key  upon  it. 
There  is  a liberality  in  the  British  nation  which  always  makes 
allowance  for  inability  of  payment.  Commerce  requires  enterprise, 
and  enterprise  is  subject  to  losses.  But  I believe  no  indulgence  was 
ever  shown  to  a creditor  saying,  “ I can,  but  will  not  pay  you.” 
Such  was  the  real  condition  of  the  bank,  together  with  its  accounts, 
when  they  were  laid  before  the  House  of  Commons,  and  the  chair- 
man 22  reported  from  the  committee,  stating  its  prosperity  and 
the  great  increase  of  its  cash  and  bullion.  The  minister,  however, 
took  care  to  vary  the  old  saying,  “Brag  is  a good  dog,  but  Holdfast 
is  better.”  “Ah  !”  said  he,  “my  worthy  chairman,  this  is  excel- 
lent news,  but  1 will  take  care  to  secure  it.”  He  kept  his  word, 
took  the  money,  gave  the  Exchequer  bills  for  it,  which  were  no 
security,  and  there  was  then  an  end  to  all  our  public  credit.  It  is 
singular  enough,  sir,  that  the  report  upon  this  bill  stated  that  it 
was  meant  to  secure  our  public  credit  from  the  avowed  intentions 
of  the  French  to  make  war  upon  it.  This  was  done  most  effectu- 
ally. Let  the  French  come  when  they  please ; they  cannot  touch 
our  public  credit  at  least.  The  minister  has  wisely  provided  against 
it ; for  he  has  previously  destroyed  it.  The  only  consolation  besides 
that  remains  to  us  is  his  assurance  that  all  will  return  again  to  its 
former  state  at  the  conclusion  of  the  war.  Thus  we  are  to  hope 

21  “Old  lady  of  Threadneedle  Street  ” is  in  England  a common  expression  for  the  Bank 
of  England. 

22  Mr-  Bragge  -^as  chairman  of  the  committee,  and  this  gave  Sheridan  the  hint  for  his 
punning  allusion. 


33° 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, ' 


that,  though  the  bank  now  presents  a meagre  spectre,  as  soon  as 
peace  is  restored  the  golden  bust  will  make  its  reappearance.  This, 
however,  is  far  from  being  the  way  to  inspirit  the  nation  or  in- 
timidate the  enemy.  Ministers  have  long  taught  the  people  of  the 
inferior  order  that  they  can  expect  nothing  from  them  but  by  coer- 
cion, and  nothing  from  the  great  but  by  corruption.  The  highest 
encouragement  to  the  French  will  be  to  observe  the  public  supine- 
ness. Can  they  have  any  apprehension  of  national  energy  or  spirit 
in  a people  whose  minister  is  eternally  oppressing  them  ? 

Though,  sir,  I have  opposed  the  present  tax,  I am  still  conscious 
that  our  existing  situation  requires  great  sacrifices  to  be  made,  and 
that  a foreign  enemy  must  at  all  events  be  resisted.  I behold  in  the 
measures  of  the  minister  nothing  except  the  most  glaring  incapacity 
and  the  most  determined  hostility  to  our  liberties  ; but  we  must  be 
content,  if  necessary  for  preserving  our  independence  from  foreign 
attack,  to  strip  to  the  skin.  “It  is  an  established  maxim,”  we  are 
told,  that  men  must  give  up  a part  for  the  preservation  of  the  re- 
mainder. I do  not  dispute  the  justice  of  the  maxim.  But  this  is 
the  constant  language  of  the  gentleman  opposite  to  me.  We  have 
already  given  up  part  after  part,  nearly  till  the  whole  is  swallowed  up. 
If  I had  a pound,  and  a person  asked  me  for  a shilling  to  preserve 
the  rest,  I should  willingly  comply,  and  think  myself  obliged  to 
him.  But  if  he  repeated  that  demand  till  he  came  to  my  twentieth 
shilling,  I should  ask  him,  “Where  is  the  remainder?  Where  is 
my  pound  now  ? Why,  my  friend,  that  is  no  joke  at  all.”  Upon 
the  whole,  sir,  I see  no  salvation  for  the  country  but  in  the  conclu- 
sion of  a peace  and  the  removal  of  the  present  ministers. 


HENRY  GRA  TTAN. 


“ By  reading  the  admirable  speeches  of  Grattan,  I have  discovered,  as  it  were, 
a new  world — the  world  of  Ireland,  of  her  long  sufferings,  her  times  of  freedom 
and  glory,  her  sublime  geniuses,  and  her  indefatigable  struggles.”1 — Count  de 
Montalembert. 

“ Who  that  ever  hath  heard  him — that  drank  at  the  source 
Of  that  wonderful  eloquence,  all  Erin’s  own, 

In  whose  high-thoughted  daring  the  fire  and  the  force 
And  the  yet  untamed  spring  of  her  spirit  are  shown.” — Moore. 

“The  speeches  of  Grattan  are  the  finest  specimens  of  imaginative  eloquence 
in  the  English  or  in  any  language.” — Davis. 

HENRY  GRATTAN,  one  of  the  greatest  of  Irish  orators,  states- 
men, and  patriots,  was  born  in  Dublin  on  the  3d  of  July,  1746. 
His  father  was  for  many  years  Recorder  of  the  Capital  of  Ireland. 
Mary  Marlay,2  his  mother,  was  a lady  of  refined  taste,  cultivated 
mind,  and  great  personal  attractions — in  short,  a rare  woman. 
Henry,  like  most  other  great  men  of  history,  inherited  his  natural 
genius  from  his  gifted  mother-  In  nothing  did  he  resemble  his 
father,  whose  views  were  narrow  and  bigoted  in  the  extreme. 

Young  Grattan  was  first  sent  to  a school  kept  by  a Mr.  Ball  in 
Great  Ship  Street,  Dublin.  Though  of  delicate  constitution,  he 
exhibited  from  his  earliest  years  great  energy  of  character.  “His 
body,”  says  one  of  his  biographers,  “ was  rather  a frail  tenement 
for  a spirit  so  enterprising.”  3 

In  his  seventeenth  year  Henry  entered  Trinity  College,  studied 
hard  and  successfully,  and  graduated  with  distinction  in  1767. 
He  then  proceeded  to  London  to  qualify  for  the  bar.  Here  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Burke,  Fox,  Chatham,  and  other  famous 
men  whose  names  have  since  passed  into  history. 

Grattan’s  was  a poetic  and  emotional  nature.  He  loved  others 
intensely,  and  the  warmth  of  his  friendship  was  universally  re- 
ciprocated. He  delighted  in  wandering  in  the  open  country,  and 
his  love  of  rural  scenery  had  the  nature  of  a passion.4 

1  This  is  the  enthusiastic  language  of  a gifted  boy  of  eighteen. 

2  She  was  the  daughter  of  Chief -Justice  Marlay,  who  belonged  to  a distinguished  Irish 
family  of  Norman  origin. 

3  Madden,  “ Memoir  of  Grattan.” 


4 Madden. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Many  anecdotes  are  told  of  this  period  of  Grattan’s  life.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  declaiming  to  himself.  His  London  landlady 
was  alarmed.  She  wrote  to  his  friends,  requesting  that  he  should 
be  removed,  as  he  was  always  pacing  her  garden  addressing  some 
person  whom  he  called  “Mr.  Speaker;”  and,  in  truth,  she  was  in 
doubt  of  the  sanity  of  her  lodger  ! Judge  Day  relates  that  Grattan, 
in  one  of  his  moonlight  rambles  through  Windsor  Forest,  stopped 
at  a gibbet,  whose  chains  he  apostrophized  in  his  usual  animated 
strain.  He  was  suddenly  tapped  upon  the  shoulder  by  a very 
prosaic  personage,  who  enquired  : “ How  the  devil  did  you  get 
down?” 

In  his  twenty-sixth  year,  Grattan  was  called  to  the  Irish  bar. 
He  soon  discovered  that  law  was  not  his  vocation.  Abandoning  it, 
he  was  induced  by  several  of  his  friends  to  enter  the  Irish  Parlia- 
ment. In  the  fall  of  1 775  5 he  was  elected  member  for  Charlemont. 
Now  began  that  grand  public  career  extending  over  half  a century 
— a career  that  ended  only  with  the  life  of  the  illustrious  man. 

Let  us  glance  back  a hundred  years.  What  do  we  see  in  un- 
happy Ireland?  “A  hundred  years  ago,”  says  a recent  writer, 
“ one  island  insisted  on  ruling  the  other  with  iron  despotism.  Ire- 
land, indeed,  possessed  a Parliament  of  its  own ; but  not  all  the 
Lords  and  Commons  of  Ireland  could  pass  a law,  even  about  an 
Irish  turnpike  gate,  without  leave  expressly  asked  and  expressly 
given  from  London.  Ireland  had  not  a single  representative  in 
the  English  Parliament,  and  yet  the  English  Parliament  bound 
Ireland  by  any  laws  it  liked.  This  legislative  power  was,  as  might 
be  supposed,  used  ignorantly.  It  could  scarcely  be  otherwise  in 
those  days,  when  a Yorkshire  squire  knew  far  less  about  Ireland 
than  such  a squire  now  knows  about  Timbuctoo.  Whenever  Irish 
interests  clashed,  or  seemed  to  clash,  with  English  interests,  Eng- 
land remorselessly  sacrificed  the  former  to  the  latter,  and  laws  were 
passed  with  the  avowed  object  of  prejudicing  the  entire  population 
of  Ireland.” 

A man  now  stepped  upon  the  scene  of  Irish  public  affairs — a 
bright,  brave  man,  whose  soul  scorned  injustice,  whose  noble  nature 
hated  iniquity  and  tyranny,  and  who  could  not  be  bribed  to  stand 
unmoved  at  the  awful  oppression  of  his  loved  and  unfortunate 
country.  It  was  Henry  Grattan.  He  was  “ twenty-nine  years  of 
age  when  he  entered  politics,  and  in  seven  years  he  was  the  trium- 

6 The  same  year,  be  it  remarked,  in  which  Daniel  O’Connell  was  born. 


Henry  Grattan. 


333 


pliant  leader  of  a people  free  and  victorious,  after  hereditary 
bondage.”6  In  1779  he  addressed  the  House  on  the  subject  of 
free  trade  for  Ireland,  and  on  the  19th  of  April,  1780,  he  made 
his  famous  demand  for  the  constitutional  independence  of  the 
Irish  Parliament  and  the  Irish  nation.  “His  memorable  speech7 
upon  that  occasion,”  writes  Madden,  “was  the  most  splendid  piece 
of  eloquence  that  had  ever  been  heard  in  Ireland,  and  it  vies  with 
the  greatest  efforts  ever  made  in  the  English  House  of  Com- 
mons.” 8 

“I  wish  for  nothing,”  exclaimed  the  noble  Grattan  in  that  im- 
mortal speech,  “but  to  breathe  in  this  our  island,  in  common  with 
my  fellow-subjects,  the  air  of  liberty.  I have  no  ambition  unless  it  be 
the  ambition  to  break  your  chain  and  to  contemplate  your  glory. 
I never  will  be  satisfied  so  long  as  the  meanest  cottager  in  Ireland 
has  a link  of  the  British  chain  clanking  to  his  rags.  He  may  be 
naked,  but  he  shall  not  be  in  irons  ! ” 

The  giant  efforts  of  Grattan  at  length  brought  a day  about  on 
which  the  legislative  independence  of  Ireland  was  proclaimed.  She 
was  permitted  to  make  her  own  laws.  It  was  April  16,  1782,  one 
of  the  most  memorable  days  in  Irish  history.  The  spectacle  pre- 
sented by  the  Irish  metropolis  was  something  never  witnessed  be- 
fore, nor  since.  Thousands  crowded  round  the  Parliament  House 
on  College  Green.  The  Irish  Volunteers,  soldiers  racy  of  the  soil, 
kept  the  multitude  in  order.  Carriage  after  carriage  passes. 
Finally  one  moves  slowly  and  solemnly  between  the  lines  of  the 
Volunteers.  It  contains  the  hero  of  the  day.  The  name  of  Grattan 
is  murmured.  Cheers  burst  forth.  The  nation  in  one  voice 
thunders  its  words  of  joyous  welcome.  Grattan  bows  to  the  peo- 
ple. He  hurries  up  the  granite  steps,  and  as  he  does  so  a keen 
observer  could  see  that  those  eyes  which  never  feared  the  face  of 
man  are  now  streaming  with  overflowing  tears.  “ Ah  ! dear,  dear 
Grattan,”  exclaims  one  of  his  eloquent  countrymen,  “kindly  Irish 
of  the  Irish — all  our  own  ! ” 9 

Let  us  enter  the  Parliament-House.  The  Duke  of  Portland 10  rises. 
His  message  is  brief.  In  the  very  first  sentence  he  announces  that 
the  Irish  have  won  the  game,  and  that  the  King,  Lords,  and  Com- 

• Davis,  “Literary  and  Historical  Essays.” 

7 See  p.  338  for  this  speech  on  “ The  Declaration  of  Irish  Right.” 

8 “Memoir  of  Grattan.” 

v The  late  lamented  Rev.  James  J.  Murphy,  editor  of  the  Montreal  True  Witnesa. 

10  At  that  time  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


334 

moiis  of  Great  Britain  have  acceded  without  reserve  to  the  de- 
claration of  the  Irish  Parliament,  and  have  acknowledged  officially 
the  constitutional  independence  of  Ireland.  And  now  it  is  Grattan’s 
turn.  He  is  just  thirty-six  years  of  age ; but  he  looks  older  by  at 
least  a dozen  years.  His  face  is  not  by  any  means  a handsome  face, 
not  made  according  to  any  model  that  painters  or  young  ladies  have 
ever  loved.  But  it  is  essentially  a face  of  power,  and  of  power  that 
looks  as  if  it  had  declared  everlasting  war  against  knavery  and  in- 
justice. There  is  terrible  strength  in  the  intense  mouth,  terrible 
fire  in  the  intense  eyes,  terrible  daring  in  the  knotted  and  grappling 
brows,  and  over  the  whole  visage  there  is  that  awful  self-forgetfulness 
which  only  comes  from  long  pondering  in  the  dark,  or  long  watching 
with  the  stars.  As  the  man  rises — and  he  rises  with  a painful  effort 
which  seems  spasmodic — his  body  looks  to  be  small  and  shrunken, 
below  the  middle  height,  spare  and  bony,  and  as,  lifting  himself 
erect,  he  stretches  out  his  uplifted  hand  the  fingers  seem  spare  and 
knotted  as  an  eagle’s  claw.  For  the  first  two  or  three  minutes,  says 
a looker  on,  you  can  hardly  keep  from  laughing,  so  awkward  is  the 
figure,  so  uncouth  is  the  gesture ; but  gradually  the  man’s  voice  as- 
serts itself,  soul  is  left  alone  with  soul,  and  you  are  smitten  through 
heart  and  brain  with  such  a strength  of  speech  as  was  never  heard 
before  except  from  the  great  Demosthenes.  The  stillness  is  terrible 
as  death  and  the  judgment  day.  At  last  the  speaker  sits  down, 
every  fibre  of  his  body  trembling  with  emotion,  and  at  once  there 
arises  from  all  that  vast  assemblage  such  a rapture  of  applause  as> 
tells  the  people  in  the  remotest  part  of  historic  Dublin  that  Grattan 
has  triumphed  and  that  Ireland  is  free. 11  Men  shake  hands  with 
one  another  and  toss  their  caps  high  in  the  air,  and  renewed  and 
thunderous  cheers  proclaim  the  praises  of  Henry  Grattan.12 

‘ ‘ When  Grattan  rose,  none  dared  oppose 
The  claim  he  made  for  freedom  ; 

They  knew  our  swords  to  back  his  words 
Were  ready,  did  he  need  them.”  13 

“Thus  was  carried  the  revolution  of  1782,”  writes  Madden,  “in 
the  achievement  of  which  Henry  Grattan  played  a part  that  would 

11  On  that  day  England  for  the  first  time  recognized  Ireland  as  a distinct  kingdom,  with 
a Parliament  of  her  own,  the  sole  legislature  thereof. 

12  Rev.  James  J.  Murphy. 

13  Davis’s  “ Song  of  the  Volunteers  of  1782.” 


Henry  Grattan,  335 

preserve  his  memory  in  history,  even  if  his  eloquence  had  not  im- 
mortalized his  name.”  14 

The  gratitude  of  the  Irish  nation  was  boundless.  It  was  pur- 
posed in  Parliament  to  reward  Grattan’s  great  services  by  voting 
him  $500,000,  “ as  a testimony  of  the  national  gratitude  for  great 
national  services.”  To  decline  the  grant  was  his  first  impulse.  But 
his  patrimony  was  small,  and  by  the  advice  of  his  friends  he  con- 
sented to  accept  half  of  the  sum  voted  him,  at  the  same  time  form- 
ing the  inflexible  resolution  nevkr  to  take  office,  a resolution  to 
which  he  adhered  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

In  1782,  during  the  very  crisis  of  the  age,  Grattan  married  Miss 
Henrietta  Fitzgerald,  “ a lady  of  beauty  and  virtue,”  writes  Madden, 
“to  whose  character  her  son  has  paid  a most  touching  tribute  while 
recording  his  father’s  career.”  15 

We  have  not  space  to  follow  minutely  Grattan’s  grand  Parlia- 
mentary career.  We  come  down  at  once  to  the  dark  days  of  the 
Union.  Unsuccessful  revolution,  disunion,  the  corruption  begot  of 
English  gold,  had  at  length  done  their  sad  work.  Ireland  was 
about  to  lose  her  Parliament,  to  give  up  her  existence  as  a distinct 
kingdom.  Where  was  Grattan  ? Though  at  this  time  sick  at  his 
home  and  almost  dead,  he  had  himself  elected  for  Wicklow.  It  was 
the  15  th  of  January,  1800.  The  last  session  of  the  last  Irish  Parlia- 
ment opened  its  sittings.  The  crisis  was  at  hand.  The  bill  for  the 
union  of  Ireland  and  England  was  the  subject  up  for  discussion. 
Each  speaker  for  and  against  excelled  himself.  The  night  wore 
on.  Suddenly,  cheering  was  heard  at  the  door  of  the  House.  Two 
of  the  members  rushed  out.  Returning,  they  led  between  them  a 
wasted  and  feeble  man.  It  was  Grattan  ! At  his  appearance,  we 
are  told,  the  whole  House  stood  up  and  uncovered.  As  he  took  the 
oaths  Lord  Castlereagh  and  the  ministers  bowed  and  remained 
standing.  Sobs  of  emotion  burst  from  the  galleries.  All  acknow- 
ledged the  presence  of  genius  and  virtue  in  the  person  of  the  very 
father  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  the  great  patriot  whose  frail  body 
could  scarcely  contain  his  dauntless  spirit.  He  was  unable  to  stand  ; 
but,  sitting  down,  he  addressed  the  House  for  two  hours,  his  eyes 
sparkling,  and  burning  words  flowing  from  his  pale  lips.  The 
closing  sentence  of  that  great  and  solemn  speech  in  opposition  to 
the  Union  was:  “Against  such  a proposition,  were  I expiring  on 

1*  “ Memoir  of  Grattan.” 

6 See  Grattan’s  “ Life,”  by  his  son,  vol.  iii.  chap.  i. 


336 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


the  floor,  I should  beg  to  utter  my  last  breath  and  record  my  dying 
testimony  ! 55  “If  the  Irish  Parliament,”  said  a writer,  “ could  have 
been  saved  by  eloquence,  Grattan  would  have  saved  it.”  But  cor- 
ruption was  victorious,  iniquity  won  the  day,  and  Ireland  dis- 
appeared from  the  list  of  independent  nations  ! 

Grattan,  sad  at  heart,  retired  from  public  life,  and  until  1805 
lived  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  In  that  year  the  friends  of  Catho- 
lic emancipation  induced  him  to  offer  himself  as  a candidate  for  the 
British  Parliament.  He  was  elected  for  Dublin,  which  city  he 
represented  till  his  death.  Let  it  be  remembered  to  the  everlasting 
honor  of  Grattan,  that,  though  a Protestant  himself,  he  was  the  un- 
ceasing advocate  of  the  poor,  oppressed,  and  down-trodden  Catholics 
of  his  native  isle.  When  other  statesmen  were  ashamed  to  speak  of 
Catholics  as  men  having  any  rights,  the  noble  Grattan,  transcending 
the  meanness  and  narrow  bigotry  of  his  age,  raised  his  manly  voice 
in  their  favor.  At  all  times  he  claimed  their  entire  emancipation, 
lie  wrought  for  them  in  the  Irish  Parliament.  He  wrought  for 
them  in  the  English  Parliament.  In  season  and  out  of  season,  till 
his  dying  day  he  was  their  tried  and  trusted  friend.  To  their  sacred 
cause,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  “clung  with  desperate  fidelity.” 
It  may  be  said  with  truth  that  he  died  in  the  cause  of  Catholic 
emancipation.16  Though  warned  by  his  medical  attendants  of  the 
consequences,  he  insisted,  in  1820,  upon  going  to  London,  that  he 
might  once  more  present  the  petition  of  the  Catholics.  “I  shall  be 
happy,”  said  the  venerable  patriot,  “to  die  in  the  performance  of 
my  duty.”  With  these  words  on  his  lips  he  left  Ireland  never  to 
see  it  again.  He  took  sick  soon  after  his  arrival  in  England. 

To  the  end  he  thought  of  nothing,  dreamt  of  nothing,  but  his 
dear  and  unhappy  country.  “Keep  knocking  at  the  Union,”  he 
Avhispered  on  his  death-bed  to  Lord  Cloncurry.  These  were  almost 
his  last  words.  He  died  in  London  on  June  6,  1820,  and  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey. 

“The  purity  of  his  life,”  says  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  “was  the 
brightness  of  his  glory.  Among  all  the  men  of  genius  I have  known, 

I have  never  found  so  much  native  grandeur  of  soul  accompanying 
all  the  wisdom  of  age  and  all  the  simplicity  of  genius.”  17 

“The  history  of  his  life,”  writes  Mr.  Chambers,  “is,  in  a great 


“The  Penny  Cyclopaedia,”  vol.  xi. 
17  “ Eulogy  of  Grattan.” 


Henry  Grattan. 


337 


measure,  the  history  of  the  Irish  Constitution,  and  entirely  the 
history  of  the  Irish  Parliament.  ” 18 

Grattan  was  th e first  modern  Irishman  who  really  ministered  in- 
tellectually to  the  national  character  of  his  country.  He  “in- 
vented an  eloquence,”  writes  Madden,  “ to  which  the  moral  tem- 
perament of  his  country  responded.  His  speeches  are  so  much  in 
conformity  with  its  genius  and  its  mental  characteristics,  as  the 
pensive  and  wildly  beautiful,  yet  alternately  gay  and  exciting, 
music  of  the  island.  You  may  trace  in  his  eloquence  the  vivid  na- 
ture, the  eager  mind,  the  cordial  sympathy,  and  aspiring  soul  of 
the  Irishman.  In  short,  Grattan  was  the  first  powerful  assertor,  as 
he  is  certainly  the  most  splendid  illustrator,  of  Irish  genius.”  19 
“Ho  other  orator,”  observes  Thomas  Davis,  “is  so  uniformly 
animated.  Ho  other  orator  has  brightened  the  depths  of  political 
philosophy  with  such  vivid  and  lasting  light.  Ho  writer  in  the 
language,  except  Shakspere,  has  so  sublime  and  suggestive  a dic- 
tion. His  force  and  vehemence  are  amazing — far  beyond  Chatham, 
far  beyond  Fox,  far  beyond  any  orator  we  can  recall.  ” 20 

“ Grattan  may  be  ranked,”  wrote  a famous  critic,  “ among  the 
greatest  masters  of  the  sarcastic  style.  He  had  a lively  and  play- 
ful fancy,  which  he  seldom  permitted  to  break  loose,  and  his  habits 
of  labor  were  such  that  he  abounded  in  all  information,  ancient 
and  modern,  which  his  subject  required,  and  could  finish  his  com- 
position with  a degree  of  care  seldom  bestowed  upon  speeches  in 
modern  times.  Finally,  he  was  a man  of  undaunted  courage,  and  al- 
ways rose  with  the  difficulties  of  his  situation.  Ho  one  ever  threw  him 
off  his  guard.  Whoever  dreamed  that  he  had  caught  him  unawares 
was  speedily  aroused  to  a bitter  sense  of  his  mistake  ; and  it  is  a 
remarkable  circumstance  that,  of  all  his  speeches  now  preserved, 
the  two  most  striking  in  point  of  execution  are  those  personal  at- 
tacks upon  Mr.  Flood  and  Mr.  Corry,  which,  from  the  nature  of  the 
occasions  that  called  them  forth,  must  of  necessity  have  been  the 
production  of  the  moment.”21 

Lord  Byron  said  that  Grattan  was — 

“With  all  that  Demosthenes  wanted  endowed. 

And  his  rival  or  master  in  all  he  possessed.” 

Of  Grattan  the  famous  Sydney  Smith  wrote : “ Ho  government 


18  “ Chambers’s  Encyclopaedia,”  vol.  v. 
50  “ Literary  and  Historical  Essays.” 


19  “ Memoir  of  Grattan.” 

21  Edinburgh  Review,  vol.  xxxviii. 


338  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

ever  dismayed  him ; the  world  could  not  bribe  him ; he  thought  only 
of  Ireland  ; lived  for  no  other  object ; dedicated  to  her  his  beauti- 
ful fancy,  his  manly  courage,  and  all  the  splendor  of  his  astonish- 
ing eloquence.  ” 

To  the  foregoing  we  add  our  sincere  and  admiring  testimony.  It 
is  now  (1877)  fifty-seven  years  since  Grattan’s  death.  The  fame  of 
his  greatness  and  his  eloquence  has  but  grown  with  the  growth  of 
years.  We  read  and  reread  his  speeches — his  unrivalled  speeches — 
with  astonishment  and  delight.  Evermore  they  enrich  English  lit- 
erature. In  a degree  possessed  by  no  others  they  find  their  way  to 
the  heart,  they  captivate  the  soul.  And  as  a noble  and  patriotic 
orator,  whose  excellent  sense,  massive  grandeur  of  thought,  sub- 
limity of  sentiment,  beauty  of  imagination,  and  magic  grasp  of 
language  carry  all  before  them,  we  must  concede  to  Grattan  the 
.highest  rank.  We  style  him  the  orator  of  orators. 


SPEECH  ON  THE  DECLARATION  OF  IRISH  RIGHTS. 

{Delivered  in  the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  April  19,  1780.) 

Sir  : I have  entreated  an  attendance  on  this  day  that  you  might, 
in  the  most  public  manner,  deny  the  claim  of  the  British  Parlia- 
ment to  make  law  for  Ireland,  and  with  one  voice  lift  up  your  hands 
against  it. 

If  I had  lived  when  the  9th  of  William  took  away  the  woollen 
manufacture,  or  when  the  6th  of  George  I.  declared  this  country  to 
be  dependent  and  subject  to  laws  to  be  enacted  by  the  Parliament 
of  England,  I should  have  made  a covenant  with  my  own  conscience 
to  seize  the  first  moment  of  rescuing  my  country  from  the  ignominy 
of  such  acts  of  power ; or,  if  I had  a son,  I should  have  adminis- 
tered to  him  an  oath  that  he  would  consider  himself  a person  sep- 
arate and  set  apart  for  the  discharge  of  so  important  a duty.  Upon 
the  same  principle  am  I now  come  to  move  a declaration  of  right, 
the  first  moment  occurring,  since  my  time,  in  which  such  a declar- 
ation could  be  made  with  any  chance  of  success,  and  without  ag- 
gravation of  oppression. 

Sir,  it  must  appear  to  every  person  that,  notwithstanding  the  im- 
port of  sugar  and  export  of  woollens,  the  people  of  this  country 
are  not  satisfied  ; something  remains ; the  greater  work  is  behind  ; 


Henry  Grattan . 


339 


the  public  heart  is  not  well  at  ease.  To  promulgate  our  satisfac- 
tion ; to  stop  the  throats  of  millions  with  the  votes  of  Parliament ; 
to  preach  homilies  to  the  volunteers ; to  utter  invectives  against  the 
people,  under  pretence  of  affectionate  advice,  is  an  attempt  weak, 
suspicious,  and  inflammatory. 

You  cannot  dictate  to  those  whose  sense  you  are  entrusted  to  rep- 
resent. Your  ancestors  who  sat  within  these  walls  lost  to  Ireland 
trade  and  liberty ; you,  by  the  assistance  of  the  people,  have  recov- 
ered trade  ; you  still  owe  the  kingdom  liberty ; she  calls  upon  you 
to  restore  it ; and  if  this  nation,  after  the  death-wound  given  to 
her  freedom,  had  fallen  on  her  knees  in  anguish  and  besought  the 
Almighty  to  frame  an  occasion  in  which  a weak  and  injured  people 
might  recover  their  rights,  prayer  could  not  have  asked,  nor  God 
have  furnished,  a moment  more  opportune  for  the  restoration  of 
liberty  than  this  in  which  I have  the  honor  to  address  you. 

England  now  smarts  under  the  lesson  of  the  American  War  ; the 
doctrine  of  imperial  legislature  she  feels  to  be  pernicious.  The 
revenues  and  monopolies  annexed  to  it  she  has  found  to  be  un- 
tenable ; she  lost  the  power  to  enforce  it.  Her  enemies  are  a host, 
pouring  upon  her  from  all  quarters  of  the  earth.  Her  armies  are 
dispersed  ; the  sea  is  not  hers  ; she  has* no  minister,  no  ally,  no  ad- 
miral— none  in  whom  she  long  confides — and  no  general  whom  she 
has  not  disgraced.  The  balance  of  her  fate  is  in  the  hands  of  Ire- 
land ; you  are  not  only  her  last  connection,  you  are  the  only  nation 
in  Europe  that  is  not  her  enemy.  Besides,  there  does,  of  late,  a 
certain  damp  and  spurious  supineness  overcast  her  arms  and  coun- 
cils, miraculous  as  that  vigor  which  has  lately  inspirited  yours. 
For  with  you  everything  is  the  reverse.  Never  was  there  a Parlia- 
ment in  Ireland  so  possessed  of  the  confidence  of  the  people.  You 
are  the  greatest  political  assembly  now  sitting  in  the  world  ; you  are 
at  the  head  of  an  immense  army.  Nor  do  we  only  possess  an  un- 
conquerable force,  but  a certain  unquenchable  public  fire,  which 
has  touched  all  ranks  of  men  like  a visitation. 

Turn  to  the  growth  and  spring  of  your  country,  and  behold  and 
admire  it  ! Where  do  you  find  a nation  who,  upon  whatever  con- 
cerns the  rights  of  mankind,  expresses  herself  with  more  truth  or 
force,  perspicuity  or  justice  ? Not  the  set  phrase  of  scholastic  men, 
not  the  tame  unreality  of  court  addresses,  not  the  vulgar  raving  of 
a rabble,  but  the  genuine  speech  of  liberty  and  the  unsophisticated 
oratory  of  a free  nation. 


340 


The  Prose  and  Poet7'y  of  Ireland. 


See  her  military  ardor,  expressed  not  only  in  40,000  men,  con- 
ducted by  instinct  as  they  were  raised  by  inspiration,  but  manifested 
in  the  zeal  and  promptitude  of  every  young  member  of  the  growing 
community.  Let  corruption  tremble  ! Let  the  enemy,  foreign  or 
domestic,  tremble;  but  let  the  friends  of  liberty  rejoice  at  these 
means  of  safety  and  this  hour  of  redemption  ! Yes,  there  does 
exist  an  enlightened  sense  of  rights,  a young  appetite  for  freedom, 
a solid  strength,  and  a rapid  fire,  which  not  only  put  a declaration 
of  right  within  your  power,  but  put  it  out  of  your  power  to  decline 
one.  Eighteen  counties  are  at  your  bar.  They  stand  there  with 
the  compact  of  Henry,  with  the  charter  of  John,  and  with  all  the 
passions  of  the  people.  “Our  lives  are  at  your  service;  but  our 
liberties — we  received  them  from  God ; we  will  not  resign  them  to 
man.”  Speaking  to  you  thus,  if  you  repulse  these  petitioners,  you 
abdicate  the  privileges  of  Parliament,  forfeit  the  rights  of  the  king- 
dom, repudiate  the  instruction  of  your  constituents,  belie  the  sense 
of  your  country,  palsy  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people,  and  reject  that 
good  which  not  a minister,  not  a Lord  North,  not  a Lord  Bucking- 
hamshire, not  a Lord  Hillsborough,  but  a certain  providential  con- 
juncture, or  rather  the  hand  of  God,  seems  to  extend  to  you.  Nor 
are  we  only  prompted  to  this  when  we  consider  our  strength  ; we 
are  challenged  to  it  when  we  look  to  Great  Britain.  The  people  of 
that  country  are  now  waiting  to  hear  the  Parliament  of  Ireland 
speak  on  the  subject  of  their  liberty ; it  begins  to  be  made  a ques- 
tion in  England  whether  the  principal  persons  wish  to  be  free.  It 
was  the  delicacy  of  former  Parliaments  to  be  silent  on  the  subject  of 
commercial  restrictions,  lest  they  should  show  a knowledge  of  the 
fact  and  not  a sense  of  the  violation.  You  have  spoken  out;  you 
have  shown  a knowledge  of  the  fact,  and  not  a sense  of  the  viola- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  you  have  returned  thanks  for  a partial 
repeal  made  on  a principle  of  power;  you  have  returned  thanks  as 
for  a favor,  and  your  exultation  has  brought  your  character  as  well 
as  your  spirit  into  question,  and  tends  to  shake  to  her  foundation 
your  title  to  liberty.  Thus  you  do  not  leave  your  rights  where  you 
found  them.  You  have  done  too  much  not  to  do  more  ; you  have 
gone  too  far  not  to  go  on;  you  have  brought  yourselves  into  that 
situation  in  which  you  must  silently  abdicate  the  rights  of  your 
country  or  publicly  restore  them.  It  is  very  true  you  may  feed 
your  manufacturers,  and  landed  gentlemen  may  get  their  rents,  and 
you  may  export  woollens,  and  may  load  a vessel  with  baize,  serges, 


Henry  Grattan . 


34i 


and  kerseys,  and  you  may  bring  back  again  directly  from  the  plan- 
tations sugar,  indigo,  speckle-wood,  beetle-root,  and  panellas  ; but 
liberty,  the  foundation  of  trade,  the  charters  of  the  land,  the  inde- 
pendence of  Parliament,  the  securing,  crowning,  and  the  consum- 
mation of  everything,  are  yet  to  come.  Without  them  the  work  is 
imperfect,  the  foundation  is  wanting,  the  capital  is  wanting, 
trade  is  not  free,  Ireland  is  a colony  without  the  benefit  of  a char- 
ter, and  you  are  a provincial  synod  without  the  privileges  of  a 
Parliament. 

I therefore  say,  with  the  voice  of  3,000,000  of  people,  that,  not- 
withstanding the  import  of  sugar,  beetle-wood,  and  panellas,  and 
the  export  of  woollens  and  kerseys,  nothing  is  safe,  satisfactory,  or 
honorable,  nothing  except  a declaration  of  right.  What  ! are  you, 
with  3,000,000  of  men  at  your  back,  with  charters  in  one  hand  and 
arms  in  the  other,  afraid  to  say  you  are  a free  people  ? Are  you, 
the  greatest  House  of  Commons  that  ever  sat  in  Ireland,  that  want 
but  this  one  act  to  equal  that  English  House  of  Commons  that 
passed  the  Petition  of  Eight,  or  that  other  that  passed  the  Declara- 
tion of  Eight,  are  you  afraid  to  tell  that  British  Parliament  you  are 
a free  people  ? Are  the  cities  and  the  instructing  counties,  who 
have  breathed  a spirit  that  would  have  done  honor  to  old  Eome 
when  Eome  did  honor  to  mankind,  are  they  to  be  free  by  con- 
nivance? Are  the  military  associations,  those  bodies  whose  origin, 
progress,  and  deportment  have  transcended — equalled,  at  least — 
anything  in  modern  or  ancient  story — is  the  vast  line  of  northern 
army — are  they  to  be  free  by  connivance  ? What  man  will  settle 
among  you  ? Where  is  the  use  of  the  Naturalization  Bill  ? What 
man  will  settle  among  you  ? Who  will  leave  a land  of  liberty  and 
a settled  government  for  a kingdom  controlled  by  the  Parliament  of 
another  country,  whose  liberty  is  a thing  by  stealth,  whose  trade  a 
thing  by  permission,  whose  judges  deny  her  charters,  whose  Parlia- 
ment leaves  everything  at  random ; where  the  chance  of  freedom 
depends  upon  the  hope  that  the  jury  shall  despise  the  judge  stating 
a British  act,  or  a rabble  stop  the  magistrate  executing  it,  rescue 
your  abdicated  privileges,  and  save  the  Constitution  by  trampling 
on  the  Government,  by  anarchy,  and  confusion  ? 

But  I shall  be  told  that  these  are  groundless  jealousies,  and  that 
the  principal  cities,  and  more  than  one-half  of  the  counties  of  the 
kingdom,  are  misguided  men  raising  those  groundless  jealousies. 
Sir,  let  me  become,  on  this  occasion,  the  people’s  advocate,  and  your 


342 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


historian.  The  people  of  this  country  were  possessed  of  a code  of 
liberty  similar  to  that  of  Great  Britain,  but  lost  it  through  the 
weakness  of  the  kingdom  and  the  pusillanimity  of  its  leaders. 
Having  lost  our  liberty  by  the  usurpation  of  the  British  Parliament, 
no  wonder  we  became  a prey  to  her  ministers  ; and  they  did  plunder 
us  with  all  the  hands  of  all  the  harpies,  for  a series  of  years,  in  every 
shape  of  power,  terrifying  our  people  with  the  thunder  of  Great 
Britain  and  bribing  our  leaders  with  the  rapine  of  Ireland.  The 
kingdom  became  a plantation ; her  Parliament,  deprived  of  its 
privileges,  fell  into  contempt,  and  with  the  Legislature,  the  law, 
the  spirit  of  liberty,  with  her  forms,  vanished.  If  a war  broke  out, 
as  in  1778,  and  an  occasion  occurred  to  restore  liberty  and  restrain 
rapine,  Parliament  declined  the  opportunity  ; but,  with  an  active 
servility  and  trembling  loyalty,  gave  and  granted,  without  regard 
to  the  treasure  we  had  left  or  the  rights  we  had  lost.  If  a partial 
reparation  was  made  upon  a principle  of  expediency,  Parliament 
did  not  receive  it  with  the  tranquil  dignity  of  an  august  assembly, 
but.  with  the  alacrity  of  slaves. 

The  people  of  Ireland  are  not  satisfied  ; they  ask  for  a Constitu- 
tion ; they  have  the  authority  of  the  wisest  men  in  this  House  for 
what  they  now  demand.  What  have  these  walls  for  this  last  cen- 
tury resounded  ? The  usurpation  of  the  British  Parliament  and  the 
interference  of  the  Privy  Council.  Have  we  taught  the  people  to 
complain,  and  do  we  now  condemn  their  insatiability  because  they 
desire  us  to  remove  such  grievances  at  a time  in  which  nothing  can 
oppose  them,  except  the  very  men  by  whom  these  grievances  were 
acknowledged  ? 

Sir,  we  may  hope  to  dazzle  with  illumination,  and  we  may  sicken 
with  addresses,  but  the  public  imagination  will  never  rest,  nor  will 
her  heart  be  well  at  ease — never  ! so  long  as  the  Parliament  of  Eng- 
land exercises  or  claims  a legislation  over  this  country.  So  long  as 
this  shall  be  the  case,  that  very  free  trade,  otherwise  a perpetual 
attachment,  will  be  the  cause  of  new  discontent ; it  will  create  a 
pride  to  feel  the  indignity  of  bondage  ; it  will  furnish  a strength  to 
bite  your  chain,  and  the  liberty  withheld  will  poison  the  good  com- 
municated. 

The  British  minister  mistakes  the  Irish  character.  Had  he  in- 
tended to  make  Ireland  a slave,  he  should  have  kept  her  a beggar. 
There  is  no  middle  policy  ; win  her  heart  by  the  restoration  of  her 
right,  or  cut  off  the  nation’s  right  hand  ; greatly  emancipate,  or 


Henry  Grattan. 


343 


fundamentally  destroy.  We  may  talk  plausibly  to  England,  but  so 
long  as  she  exercises  a power  to  bind  this  country,  so  long  are  the 
nations  in  a state  of  war ; the  claims  of  the  one  go  against  the  liberty 
of  the  other,  and  the  sentiments  of  the  latter  go  to  oppose  those 
claims  to  the  last  drop  of  her  blood.  The  English  Opposition,  there- 
fore, are  right;  mere  trade  will  not  satisfy  Ireland — they  judge  of 
us  by  other  great  nations,  by  the  nation  whose  political  life  has  been 
a struggle  for  liberty;  they  judge  of  us  with  a true  knowledge  of 
aiul  just  deference  for  our  character — that  a country  enlightened  as 
Ireland,  chartered  as  Ireland,  armed  as  Ireland,  and  injured  as  Ire- 
land, will  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  liberty. 

There  is  no  objection  to  this  resolution,  except  fears.  I have  ex- 
amined your  fears;  I pronounce  them  to  be  frivolous.  If  England 
is  a tyrant,  ii;  is  you  have  made  her  so  ; it  is  the  slave  that  makes 
the  tyrant,  and  then  murmurs  at  the  master  whom  he  himself  has 
constituted.  There  is  nothing  in  the  way  of  your  liberty  except 
your  own  corruption  and  pusillanimity,  and  nothing  can  prevent 
your  being  free  except  yourselves.  It  is  not  in  the  disposition  of 
England;  it  is  not  in  the  interest  of  England;  it  is  not  in  her 
arms.  What!  can  8,000,000  of  Englishmen,  opposed  to  20,000,000 
of  French,  to  7,000,000  of  Spanish,  to  3,000,000  of  Americans, 
reject  the  alliance  of  3,000,000  in  Ireland  ? Can  8,000,000  of 
British  men,  thus  outnumbered  by  foes,  take  upon  their  shoulders 
the  expense  of  an  expedition  to  enslave  you  ? Will  Great  Britain, 
a wise  and  magnanimous  country,  thus  tutored  by  experience  and 
wasted  by  war,  the  French  navy  riding  her  Channel,  send  an  army 
to  Ireland,  to  levy  no  tax,  to  enforce  no  law,  to  answer  no  end 
whatsoever,  except  to  spoliate  the  charters  of  Ireland  and  enforce 
a barren  oppression  ? What ! has  England  lost  thirteen  j>rovinces  ? 
Has  she  reconciled  herself  to  this  loss,  and  will  she  not  be  re- 
conciled to  the  liberty  of  Ireland  ? Take  notice  that  the  very 
Constitution  which  I move  you  to  declare,  Great  Britain  herself 
offered  to  America ; it  is  a very  instructive  proceeding  in  the  British 
history.  In  1778  a commission  went  out,  with  powers  to  cede  to 
the  thirteen  provinces  of  America,  totally  and  radically,  the  legis- 
lative authority  claimed  over  her  by  the  British  Parliament,  and 
the  commissioners,  pursuant  to  their  powers,  did  offer  to  all  or 
any  of  the  American  States  the  total  surrender  of  the  legislative 
authority  of  the  British  Parliament.  What ! has  England  offered 
this  to  the  resistance  of  America,  and  will  she  refuse  it  to  the 


344 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


loyalty  of  Ireland  ? Your  fears  are  then  nothing  but  an  habitual 
subjugation  of  mind ; that  subjugation  of  mind  which  made  you, 
at  first,  tremble  at  every  great  measure  of  safety ; which  made  the 
principal  meu  amongst  us  conceive  the  commercial  association 
would  be  a war ; that  fear,  which  made  them  imagine  the  military 
association  had  a tendency  to  treason ; which  made  them  think  a 
short  money-bill  would  be  a public  convulsion;  and  yet  these  mea- 
sures have  not  only  proved  to  be  useful,  but  are  held  to  be  mode- 
rate, and  the  Parliament  that  adopted  them  praised,  not  for  its 
unanimity  only,  but  also  for  its  temper.  You  now  wonder  that  you 
submitted  for  so  many  years  to  the  loss  of  the  woollen  trade  and 
the  deprivation  of  the  glass  trade  ; raised  above  your  former  abject 
state  in  commerce,  you  are  ashamed  at  your  past  pusillanimity.  So 
when  you  have  summoned  a boldness  which  shall  assert  the  liberties 
of  your  country — raised  by  the  act,  and  reinvested,  as  you  will  be,  in 
the  glory  of  your  ancient  rights  and  privileges — you  will  be  sur- 
prised at  yourselves,  who  have  so  long  submitted  to  their  violation. 
Moderation  is  but  a relative  term ; for  nations,  like  men,  are  only 
safe  in  proportion  to  the  spirit  they  put  forth,  and  the  proud  con- 
templation with  which  they  survey  themselves.  Conceive  your- 
selves a plantation,  ridden  by  an  oppressive  government,  and  every- 
thing you  have  done  is  but  a fortunate  frenzy  ; conceive  yourselves 
to  be  what  you  are,  a great,  a growing,  and  a proud  nation,  and  a 
declaration  of  right  is  no  more  than  the  safe  exercise  of  your  in- 
dubitable authority. 

I shall  hear  of  ingratitude ; I name  the  argument  to  despise  it  and 
the  men  who  make  use  of  it.  I know  the  men  who  use  it  are  not 
grateful,  they  are  insatiate  ; they  are  public  extortioners,  who  would 
stop  the  tide  of  public  prosperity,  and  turn  it  to  the  channel  of  their 
own  emolument.  I know  of  no  species  of  gratitude  which  should 
prevent  my  country  from  being  free,  no  gratitude  which  should  oblige 
Ireland  to  be  the  slave  of  England.  In  cases  of  robbery  and  usurpa- 
tion nothing  is  an  object  of  gratitude  except  the  thing  stolen,  the 
charter  spoliated.  A nation’s  liberty  cannot,  like  her  treasures,  be 
meted  and  parcelled  out  in  gratitude.  No  man  can  be  grateful  or 
liberal  of  his  conscience,  nor  woman  of  her  honor,  nor  nation  of  her 
liberty.  There  are  certain  unimpartable,  inherent,  invaluable  proper- 
ties not  to  be  alienated  from  the  person,  whether  body  politic  or  body 
natural.  With  the  same  contempt  do  I treat  that  charge  which  says 
that  Ireland  is  insatiable,  saying  that  Ireland  asks  nothing  but  that 


Henry  Grattan. 


345 


which  Great  Britain  has  robbed  her  of,  her  rights  and  privileges.  To 
say  that  Ireland  will  not  be  satisfied  with  liberty  because  she  is  not 
satisfied  with  slavery  is  folly.  I laugh  at  that  man  who  supposes 
that  Ireland  will  not  be  content  with  a free  trade  and  a free  Consti- 
tution ; and  would  any  man  advise  her  to  be  content  with  less  ? 

I shall  be  told  that  we  hazard  the  modification  of  the  law  of 
Poynings’  and  the  Judges’  Bill,  and  the  Habeas  Corpus  Bill,  and  the 
Nullum  Tempus  Bill ; but  I ask,  Have  you  been  for  years  begging 
for  these  little  things  and  have  not  you  yet  been  able  to  obtain  them  ? 
and  have  you  been  contending  against  a little  body  of  eighty  men  in 
Privy  Council  assembled,  convocating  themselves  into  the  image  of 
a Parliament,  and  ministering  your  high  office  ? And  have  you  been 
contending  against  one  man,  an  bumble  individual,  to  you  a levia- 
than, the  English  Attorney-General,  who  advises  in  the  case  of  Irish 
bills,  and  exercises  legislation  in  his  own  person,  and  makes  your 
parliamentary  deliberations  a blank,  by  altering  your  bills  or  sup- 
pressing them  ? And  have  you  not  yet  been  able  to  conquer  this  little 
monster  ? Do  you  wish  to  know  the  reason  ? I will  tell  you  ; because 
you  have  not  been  a parliament  nor  your  country  a people.  Do  you 
wish  to  know  the  remedy  ? be  a Parliament,  become  a nation,  and 
these  things  will  follow  in  the  train  of  your  consequence.  I shall  be 
told  that  titles  are  shaken,  being  vested  by  force  of  English  acts; 
but,  in  answer  to  that,  I observe  time  may  be  a title,  acquiescence  a 
title,  forfeiture  a title,  but  an  English  act  of  Parliament  certainly 
cannot.  It  is  an  authority  which,  if  a judge  would  charge,  no  jury 
would  find,  and  which  all  the  electors  in  Ireland  have  already  dis- 
claimed unequivocally,  cordially,  and  universally.  Sir,  this  is  a good 
argument  for  an  act  of  title,  but  no  argument  against  a declaration 
of  right.  My  friend,  who  sits  above  me  (Mr.  Yelverton),  has  a Bill 
of  Confirmation  ; we  do  not  come  unprepared  to  Parliament.  I am 
not  come  to  shake  property,  but  to  confirm  property  and  restore 
freedom.  The  nation  begins  to  form  ; we  are  moulding  into  a peo- 
ple ; freedom  asserted,  property  secured,  and  the  army  (a  mercenary 
band)  likely  to  be  restrained  by  law.  Never  was  such  a revolution 
accomplished  in  so  short  a time,  and  with  such  public  tranquillity. 

The  same  laws,  the  same  charters,  communicate  to  both  kingdoms, 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  the  same  rights  and  privileges  ; and  one 
privilege  above  them  all  is  that  communicated  by  Magna  Charta,  by 
the  25tli  of  Edward  the  Third,  and  by  a multitude  of  other  statutes, 
“not  to  be  bound  by  any  act  except  made  with  the  archbishops. 


346 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


bishops,  earls,  barons,  and  freemen  of  the  commonalty  ” — viz.,  of  the 
Parliament  of  the  realm.  On  this  right  of  exclusive  legislation  are 
founded  the  Petition  of  Right,  Bill  of  Right,  Revolution,  and  Act  of 
Settlement.  The  King  has  no  other  title  to  his  crown  than  that 
which  you  have  to  your  liberty;  both  are  founded,  the  throne  and 
your  freedom,  upon  the  right  vested  in  the  subject  to  resist  by  arms, 
notwithstanding  their  oaths  of  allegiance,  any  authority  attempting 
to  impose  acts  of  power  as  laws,  whether  that  authority  be  one  man 
or  a host,  the  second  James,  or  the  British  Parliament. 

And  as  anything  less  than  liberty  is  inadequate  to  Ireland,  so  is  it 
dangerous  to  Great  Britain.  We  are  too  near  the  British  nation,  we 
are  too  conversant  with  her  history,  we  are  too  much  fired  by  her 
example,  to  be  anything  less  than  her  equal ; anything  less  ! we 
should  be  her  bitterest  enemies,  an  enemy  to  that  power  which 
smote  us  with  her  mace,  and  to  that  Constitution  from  whose  bless- 
ings we  were  excluded.  To  be  ground  as  we  have  been  by  the  British 
nation,  bound  by  her  Parliament,  plundered  by  her  Crown,  threat- 
ened by  her  enemies,  insulted  with  her  protection,  while  we  returned 
thanks  for  her  condescension,  is  a system  of  meanness  and  misery 
which  has  expired  in  our  determination,  as  I hope  it  has  in  her 
magnanimity. 

That  there  are  precedents  against  us  I allow — acts  of  power  I would 
call  them,  not  precedents — and  I answer  the  English  pleading  such 
precedents  as  they  answered  their  kings  when  they  urged  precedents 
against  the  liberty  of  England:  Such  things  are  the  weakness  of 
the  times  ; the  tyranny  of  the  one  side,  the  feebleness  of  the  other, 
the  law  of  neither ; we  will  not  be  bound  by  them  ; or  rather,  in  the 
words  of  the  Declaration  of  Right,  no  doing  judgment,  jjroceeding, 
or  anywise  to  the  contrary,  shall  be  brought  into  precedent  or  ex- 
ample.” Do  not,  then,  tolerate  a power,  the  power  of  the  British 
Parliament,  over  this  land  which  has  no  foundation  in  utility,  or 
necessity,  or  empire,  or  the  laws  of  England,  or  the  laws  of  Ireland, 
or  the  laws  of  nature,  or  the  laws  of  God  ; do  not  suffer  it  to  have  a 
duration  in  your  mind. 

Do  not  tolerate  that  power  which  blasted  you  for  a century,  that 
power  which  shattered  your  looms,  banished  your  manufactures,  dis- 
honored your  peerage,  and  stopped  the  growth  of  your  people ; do 
not,  I say,  be  bribed  by  an  export  of  woollen,  or  an  import  of  sugar, 
and  permit  that  power  which  has  thus  withered  the  land  to  remain 
in  your  country  and  have  existence  in  your  pusillanimity. 


Henry  Grattan . 


347 


Do  not  suffer  the  arrogance  of  England  to  imagine  a surviving 
hope  in  the  fears  of  Ireland;  do  not  send  the  people  to  their  own 
resolves  for  liberty,  passing  by  the  tribunals  of  justice  and  the  high 
court  of  Parliament ; neither  imagine  that,  by  any  formation  of 
apology,  you  can  palliate  such  a commission  to  your  hearts,  still  less 
to  your  children,  who  will  sting  you  with  their  curses  in  your  grave 
for  having  interposed  between  them  and  their  Maker,  robbing  them 
of  an  immense  occasion,  and  losing  an  opportunity  which  you  did 
not  create  and  can  never  restore. 

Hereafter,  when  these  things  shall  be  history — your  age  of  thral- 
dom and  poverty,  your  sudden  resurrection,  commercial  redress,  and 
miraculous  armament — shall  the  historian  stop  at  liberty,  and  observe 
that  here  the  principal  men  among  us  fell  into  mimic  trances  of 
gratitude , they  were  awed  by  a weak  ministry,  and  bribed  by  an 
empty  treasury ; and  when  liberty  was  within  their  grasp,  and  the 
temple  opened  her  folding  doors,  and  the  arms  of  the  people  clanged, 
and  the  zeal  of  the  nation  urged  and  encouraged  them  on,  that  they 
fell  down  and  were  prostituted  at  the  threshold  ? 

I might,  as  a constituent,  come  to  your  bar  and  demand  mj 
liberty.  I do  call  upon  you,  by  the  laws  of  the  land  and  their  viola- 
tion, by  the  instruction  of  eighteen  counties,  by  the  arms,  inspira- 
tion,  and  providence  of  the  present  moment,  tell  us  the  rule  by  which 
we  shall  go,  assert  the  law  of  Ireland,  declare  the  liberty  of  the  land. 

I will  not  be  answered  by  a public  lie  in  the  shape  of  an  amend- 
ment ; neither,  speaking  for  the  subject’s  freedom,  am  I to  hear  of 
faction.  I wish  for  nothing  but  to  breathe  in  this  our  island,  in 
common  with  my  fellow-subjects,  the  air  of  liberty.  I have  no 
ambition,  unless  it  be  the  ambition  to  break  your  chain  and  contem- 
plate your  glory.  I never  will  be  satisfied  so  long  as  the  meanest 
cottager  in  Ireland  has  a link  of  the  British  chain  clanking  to  his 
rags.  He  may  be  naked,  he  shall  not  be  in  irons ; and  I do  see  the 
time  is  at  hand,  the  spirit  is  gone  forth,  the  declaration  is  planted  ; 
and  though  great  men  should  apostatize,  yet  the  cause  will  live ; 
and  though  the  public  speaker  should  die,  yet  the  immortal  fire 
shall  outlast  the  organ  which  conveyed  it,  and  the  breath  of  liberty, 
like  the  word  of  the  holy  man,  will  not  die  with  the  prophet,  but 
survive  him. 

I shall  move  you,  “ That  the  King’s  most  excellent  Majesty,  and 
the  Lords  and  Commons  of  Ireland,  are  the  only  power  competent 
to  make  laws  to  bind  Ireland.” 


348  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

SPEECH  ON  THE  CATHOLIC  QUESTION. 

{Delivered  in  the  Irish  Parliament , Feb.  20,  1782.) 

Sir  : I object  to  any  delay  that  can  be  given  to  this  clause.23 
When  this  country  had  resolved  no  longer  to  crouch  beneath  the 
burden  of  oppression  that  England  had  laid  upon  her,  when  she 
armed  in  defence  of  her  rights,  and  a high-spirited  people  demanded 
a free  trade,  did  the  Roman  Catholics  desert  their  countrymen  ? 
No,  no  ; they  were  found  among  the  foremost.  When  it  was  after- 
wards thought  necessary  to  assert  a free  Constitution,  the  Roman 
Catholics  displayed  their  public  virtue;  they  did  not  endeavor  to 
make  terms  for  themselves,  but  they  entered  frankly  and  heartily 
into  the  cause  of  their  country,  judging  by  their  own  virtue  that 
they  might  depend  upon  your  generosity  for  their  reward.  But 
now,  after  you  have  retained  a free  trade,  after  the  voice  of  the 
nation  has  asserted  her  independence,  they  approach  the  House  as 
humble  suppliants,  and  beg  to  be  admitted  to  the  common  rights 
of  men.  Upon  the  occasions  I have  mentioned  I did  carefully  ob- 
serve their  actions,  and  did  then  determine  to  support  their  cause 
whenever  it  came  before  this  House. 

The  question  now  is,  whether  we  shall  grant  Roman  Catholics  the 
power  of  enjoying  estates — whether  we  shall  be  a Protestant  settle- 
ment or  an  Irish  nation  ? Whether  we  shall  throw  open  the  gates 
of  the  temple  of  liberty  to  all  our  countrymen,  or  whether  we  shall 
confine  them  in  bondage  by  penal  laws.  So  long  as  the  penal  code 
remains,  we  never  can  be  a great  nation.  The  penal  code  is  the 
shell  in  which  the  Protestant  power  has  been  hatched,  and  now  that 
it  has  become  a bird  it  must  burst  the  shell  or  perish  in  it. 

In  Holland,  where  the  number  of  Roman  Catholics  is  compara- 
tively small,  the  toleration  of  their  religion  is  an  act  of  mercy  to 
them  ; but  in  this  country  it  is  an  act  of  policy,  an  act  of  necessity, 
an  act  of  incorporation.  The  question  is  not  whether  we  shall  show 
mercy  to  the  Roman  Catholics,  but  whether  we  shall  mould  the  in- 
habitants of  Ireland  into  a people  ; for  so  long  as  we  exclude  Catho- 
lics from  natural  liberty  and  the  common  rights  of  man  we  are  not 
a people.  We  may  triumph  over  them , but  other  nations  will  triumph 
over  us.  If  you  love  the  Roman  Catholic,  you  may  be  sure  of  a re- 


22  A clause  in  the  bill  which  moved  that  Irish  Catholics  be  restored  to  the  rights  of  pur- 
chasing, holding,  and  inheriting  property.  By  the  barbarous  Government  of  England 
they  had  long  been  deprived  of  any  rights— even  the  right  to  breathe  and  live  I 


Henry  Grattan. 


349 


turn  from  him  ; but  if  you  treat  him  with  cruelty,  you  must  always 
live  in  fear,  conscious  that  you  merit  his  just  resentment.  Will  you, 
then,  go  clown  the  stream  of  time,  the  Roman  Catholic  sitting  by 
your  side,  unblessing  and  unblest,  blasting  and  blasted  ? Or  will 
you  take  off  his  chain,  that  he  may  take  off  yours  ? Will  you  give 
him  freedom,  that  he  may  guard  your  liberty  ? 

I give  my  consent  to  the  clause  in  its  principle,  extent,  and  bold- 
ness ; I give  my  consent  to  it  as  the  most  likely  means  of  obtaining 
a victory  over  the  prejudices  of  Catholics,  and  over  our  own;  I give 
my  consent  to  it  because  I would  not  keep  2,000,000  of  my  fellow- 
subjects  in  a state  of  slavery,  and  because,  as  a mover  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Rights,  1 would  be  ashamed  of  givin g freedom  to  but  600,000 
of  my  countrymen  when  I could  extend  it  to  2,000,000  more. 


PHILIPPIC  AGAINST  FLOOD. 

( October  28,  1783.) 

It  is  not  the  slander  of  an  evil  tongue  that  can  defame  me.  I 
maintain  my  reputation  in  public  and  in  private  life.  No  man 
who  has  not  a bad  character  can  ever  say  that  I deceived ; no  coun- 
try can  call  me  a cheat.  But  I will  suppose  such  a public  charac- 
ter. I will  suppose  such  a man  to  have  existence ; I will  begin 
with  his  character  in  his  political  cradle,  and  I will  follow  him  to 
the  last  state  of  political  dissolution. 

I will  suppose  him  in  the  first  stage  of  his  life  to  have  been  in- 
temperate, in  the  second  to  have  been  corrupt,  and  in  the  last  se- 
ditious ; that  after  an  envenomed  attack  on  the  persons  and  mea- 
sures of  a succession  of  Viceroys,  and  after  much  declamation 
against  their  illegalities  and  their  profusion,  he  took  office,  and  be- 
came a supporter  of  Government  when  the  profusion  of  ministers 
had  greatly  increased,  and  their  crimes  multiplied  beyond  example ; 
when  your  money  bills  were  altered  without  reserve  by  the  council ; 
when  an  embargo  was  laid  on  your  export  trade,  and  a war  declared 
against  the  liberties  of  America.  At  such  a critical  moment  I will 
suppose  this  gentleman  to  be  corrupted  by  a great  sinecure  office  to 
muzzle  his  declamation,  to  swallow  his  invectives,  to  give  his  assent 
and  vote  to  the  ministers,  and  to  become  a supporter  of  Govern- 
ment, its  measures,  its  embargo,  and  its  American  War.  I will  sup- 


35° 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


pose  that  he  was  suspected  by  the  Government  that  had  bought 
him,  and  in  consequence  thereof  that  he  thought  proper  to  resort 
to  the  arts  of  a trimmer,  the  last  sad  refuge  of  disappointed  ambi- 
tion; that,  with  respect  to  the  Constitution  of  his  country — that 
part,  for  instance,  which  regarded  the  Mutiny  Bill  when  a clause  of 
reference  was  introduced  whereby  the  articles  of  war  which  were, 
or  hereafter  might  be,  passed  in  England  should  be  current  in  Ire- 
land without  the  interference  of  her  Parliament — when  such  a 
clause  was  in  view  I will  suppose  this  gentleman  to  have  absconded. 
Again,  when  the  bill  was  made  perpetual,  I will  suppose  him  again 
to  have  absconded.  But  a year  and  a half  after  the  bill  had  passed, 
then  I will  suppose  this  gentleman  to  have  come  forward,  and  to 
say  that  your  Constitution  had  been  destroyed  by  the  perpetual  bill. 
With  regard  to  that  part  of  the  Constitution  that  relates  to  the  law 
of  Poynings,  I will  suppose  the  gentleman  to  have  made  many 
a long,  very  long,  disquisition  before  he  took  office,  but  after  he 
had  received  office  to  have  been  as  silent  on  that  subject  as  before 
he  had  been  loquacious.  That  when  money  bills,  under  color  of  that 
law,  were  altered  year  after  year,  as  in  1775  and  1776,  and  when 
the  bills  so  altered  were  resumed  and  passed,  I will  suppose  that 
gentleman  to  have  absconded  or  acquiesced,  and  to  have  supported 
the  minister  who  made  the  alteration  ; but  when  he  was  dismissed 
from  office,  and  a member  introduced  a bill  to  remedy  this  evil,  I 
will  suppose  that  this  gentleman  inveighed  against  the  mischief, 
against  the  remedy,  and  against  the  person  of  the  introducer,  who 
did  that  duty  which  he  himself  for  seven  years  had  abandoned. 
With  respect  to  that  part  of  the  Constitution  which  is  connected 
with  the  repeal  of  the  6th  of  George  I.,  when  the  adequacy  of  the 
repeal  was  debating  in  the  House  I will  suppose  this  gentleman  to 
make  no  kind  of  objection  ; that  he  never  named  at  that  time  the 
word  renunciation  ; and  that,  on  the  division  on  that  subject,  he 
absconded ; but  when  the  office  he  had  lost  was  given  to  another 
man,  that  then  he  came  forward  and  exclaimed  against  the  measure  ; 
nay,  that  he  went  into  the  public  streets  to  canvass  for  sedition, 
that  he  became  a rambling  incendiary,  and  endeavored  to  excite  a 
mutiny  in  the  volunteers  against  an  adjustment  between  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland  of  liberty  and  repose,  which  he  had  not  the 
virtue  to  make,  and  against  an  Administration  who  had  the  virtue 
to  free  the  country  without  buying  the  members. 

With  respect  to  commerce,  I will  suppose  this  gentleman  to  have 


Henry  Grattan. 


351 


supported  an  embargo  which  lay  on  the  country  for  three  years, 
and  almost  destroyed  it,  and  when  an  address  in  1778  to  open  her 
trade  was  propounded,  to  remain  silent  and  inactive  ; and  with  re- 
spect to  that  other  part  of  her  trade  which  regarded  the  duty  on 
sugar,  when  the  merchants  were  examined  in  1778  on  the  inade- 
quate protecting  duty,  when  the  inadequate  duty  was  voted,  when 
the  act  was  recommitted,  when  another  duty  was  proposed,  when 
the  bill  returned  with  the  inadequate  duty  substituted,  when  the 
altered  bill  was  adopted — on  every  one  of  those  questions  I will 
suppose  the  gentleman  to  abscond  ; but  a year  and  a half  after  the 
mischief  was  done,  he  out  of  office,  I will  suppose  him  to  come 
forth,  and  to  tell  his  country  that  her  trade  had  been  destroyed  by 
an  inadequate  duty  on  English  sugar,  as  her  Constitution  had  been 
ruined  by  a perpetual  Mutiny  Bill.  With  relation  to  three-fourths 
of  our  fellow-subjects,  the  Catholics,  when  a bill  was  introduced  to 
grant  them  rights  of  property  and  religion,  I will  suppose  this  gen- 
tleman to  have  come  forth  to  give  his  negative  to  their  pretensions. 
In  the  same  manner  I will  suppose  him  to  have  opposed  the  institu- 
tion of  the  volunteers,  to  which  we  owe  so  much,  and  that  he  went 
to  a meeting  in  his  own  country  to  prevent  their  establishment ; 
that  he  kept  himself  out  of  their  associations  ; that  he  was  almost 
the  only  man  in  this  House  that  was  not  in  uniform  ; and  that  he 
never  was  a volunteer  until  he  ceased  to  be  a placeman,  and  until  he 
became  an  incendiary. 

With  regard  to  the  liberties  of  America,  which  were  inseparable 
from  ours,  I will  suppose  this  gentleman  to  have  been  an  enemy 
decided  and  unreserved  ; that  he  voted  against  her  liberty,  and 
voted,  moreover,  for  an  address  to  send  4,000  Irish  troops  to  cut 
the  throats  of  the  Americans ; that  he  called  these  butchers 
“armed  negotiators,”  and  stood  with  a metaphor  in  his  mouth  and 
a bribe  in  his  pocket,  a champion  against  the  rights  of  America, 
the  only  hope  of  Ireland,  and  the  only  refuge  of  the  liberties  of 
mankind. 

Thus  defective  in  every  relationship,  whether  to  Constitution, 
commerce,  toleration,  I will  suppose  this  man  to  have  added  much 
private  improbity  to  public  crimes ; that  his  probity  was  like  his 
patriotism,  and  his  honor  on  a level  with  his  oath.  He  loves  to 
deliver  panegyrics  on  himself.  I will  interrupt  him,  and  say  : Sir, 
you  are  much  mistaken  if  you  think  that  your  talents  have  been  as 
great  as  your  life  has  been  reprehensible.  You  began  your  parlia- 


352  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

mentary  career  with  an  acrimony  and  personality  which  could  have 
been  justified  only  by  a supposition  of  virtue.  After  a rank  and 
clamorous  opposition,  you  became  on  a sudden  silent;  you  were 
silent  for  seven  years  ; you  were  silent  on  the  greatest  questions, 
and  you  were  silent  for  money  ! In  1773,  while  a negotiation  was 
pending  to  sell  your  talents  and  your  turbulence,  you  absconded 
from  your  duty  in  Parliament ; you  forsook  your  law  of  Poynings  ; 
you  forsook  the  questions  of  economy,  and  abandoned  all  the  old 
themes  of  your  former  declamation ; you  were  not  at  that 
period  to  be  found  in  the  House  ; you  were  seen,  like  a guilty 
spirit,  haunting  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  watching  the 
moment  in  which  the  question  should  be  put,  that  you  might  van- 
ish. You  were  descried  with  a criminal  anxiety  retiring  from  the 
scenes  of  your  past  glory  ; or  you  were  perceived  coasting  the  upper 
benches  of  this  House  like  a bird  of  prey,  with  an  evil  aspect  and 
a sepulchral  note,  meditating  to  pounce  on  its  quarry.  These  ways 
— they  were  not  the  ways  of  honor — you  practised  pending  a ne- 
gotiation which  was  to  end  either  in  your  sale  or  your  sedition. 
The  former  taking  place,  you  supported  the  rankest  measures  that 
ever  came  before  Parliament — the  embargo  of  1776,  for  instance. 
“0  fatal  embargo  ! that  breach  of  law  and  ruin  of  commerce  ! ” 
You  supported  the  unparalleled  profusion  and  jobbing  of  Lord  Har- 
court’s  scandalous  ministry;  the  address  to  support  the  American 
War;  the  other  address  to  send  4,000  men  whom  you  had  yourself 
declared  to  be  necessary  for  the  defence  of  Ireland  to  fight  against 
the  liberties  of  America,  to  which  you  had  declared  yourself  a friend ; 
you,  sir,  who  delight  to  utter  execrations  against  the  American 
commissioners  of  1778,  on  account  of  their  hostility  to  America ; 
you,  sir,  who  manufacture  stage  thunder  against  Mr.  Eden  for  his 
anti-American  principles  ; you,  sir,  whom  it  pleases  to  chant  a 
hymn  to  the  immortal  Hampden  ; you,  sir,  approved  of  the  tyranny 
exercised  against  America,  and  you,  sir,  voted  4,000  Irish  troops  to 
cut  the  throats  of  the  Americans  fighting  for  their  freedom,  fighting 
for  your  freedom,  fighting  for  the  great  principle,  liberty.  But  you 
found  at  last  (and  this  should  be  an  eternal  lesson  to  men  of  your 
craft  and  cunning)  that  the  king  had  only  dishonored  you;  the 
court  had  bought,  but  would  not  trust,  you  ; and,  having  voted 
for  the  worst  measures,  you  remained  for  seven  years  the  creature 
of  salary , without  the  confidence  of  Government.  Mortified  at  the 
discovery,  and  stung  by  disappointment,  you  betake  yourself  to 


Henry  Grattan . 


353 


the  sad  expedients  of  duplicity;  you  try  the  sorry  game  of  a 
trimmer  in  your  progress  to  the  acts  of  an  incendiary ; you  give 
no  honest  support  either  to  the  Government  or  the  people ; 
you,  at  the  most  critical  period  of  their  existence,  take  no  part, 
you  sign  no  non-consumption  agreement,  you  are  no  volunteer, 
you  oppose  no  perpetual  Mutiny  Bill,  no  altered  Sugar  Bill ; 
you  declare  that  you  lament  that  the  Declaration  of  Rights  should 
have  been  brought  forward  ; and  observing,  with  regard  to  prince 
and  people,  the  most  impartial  treachery  and  desertion,  you 
justify  the  suspicion  of  your  sovereign  by  betraying  the  Govern- 
ment, as  you  had  sold  the  people  ; until,  at  last,  by  this  hollow 
conduct,  and  for  some  other  steps,  the  result  of  mortified  ambition, 
being  dismissed,  and  another  person  put  in  your  place,  you  fly  to 
the  ranks  of  the  volunteers,  and  canvass  for  mutiny  ; you  announce 
that  the  country  was  ruined  by  other  men  during  that  period  in 
which  she  had  been  sold  by  you.  Your  logic  is  that  the  repeal  of  a 
declaratory  law  is  not  the  repeal  of  a law  at  all,  and  the  effect  of 
that  logic  is  an  English  act  affecting  to  emancipate  Ireland  by  exer- 
cising over  her  the  legislative  authority  of  the  British  Parliament. 
Such  has  been  your  conduct,  and  at  such  conduct  every  order  of 
your  fellow-subjects  have  a right  to  exclaim.  The  merchant  may 
say  to  you,  the  constitutionalist  may  say  to  you,  the  American  may 
say  to  you,  and  I,  I now  say,  and  say  to  your  beard  : Sir,  you  are 
not  an  honest  man. 


REPLY  TO  CORRY. 

(. February  14,  1800.) 

Has  the  gentleman  done  ? Has  he  completely  done  ? He  was 
unparliamentary  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his  speech. 
•There  was  scarce  a word  he  uttered  that  was  not  a violation  of  the 
privileges  of  the  House,  but  I did  not  call  him  to  order.  Why  ? 
Because  the  limited  talents  of  some  men  render  it  impossible  for 
them  to  be  severe  without  being  unparliamentary.  But  before  I 
sit  down  I shall  show  him  how  to  be  severe  and  parliamentary  at 
the  same  time.  On  any  other  occasion  I should  think  myself  justi- 
fiable in  treating  with  silent  contempt  anything  which  might  fall 
from  that  honorable  member,  but  there  are  times  when  the  insigni- 
ficance of  the  accuser  is  lost  in  the  magnitude  of  the  accusation. 


354 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


I know  the  difficulty  the  honorable  gentleman  labored  under  when 
he  attacked  me,  conscious  that,  on  a comparative  view  of  our 
characters,  public  and  private,  there  is  nothing  he  could  say  which 
would  injure  me.  The  public  would  not  believe  the  charge.  I 
despise  the  falsehood.  If  such  a charge  were  made  by  an  honest 
man,  I would  answer  it  in  the  manner  I shall  do  before  I sit 
dowm.  But  I shall  first  reply  to  it  when  not  made  by  an  honest 
man. 

The  right  honorable  gentleman  has  called  me  “ an  unimpeached 
traitor. ” I ask,  why  not  “traitor,”  unqualified  by  any  epithet  ? I 
will  tell  him  it  was  because  he  dare  not.  It  was  the  act  of  a 
coward  who  raises  his  aim  to  strike  but  has  not  courage  to  give  the 
blow.  I will  not  call  him  villain,  because  it  would  be  unparliamen- 
tary, and  he  is  a Privy  Counsellor.  I will  not  call  him  fool,  because 
he  happens  to  be  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  But  I say  he  is 
one  who  has  abused  the  privilege  of  Parliament  and  freedom  of 
debate  to  the  uttering  language  which,  if  spoken  out  of  the  House, 
I should  answer  only  with  a blow.  I care  not  how  high  his  situa- 
tion, how  low  his  character,  how  contemptible  his  speech  ; whether 
a Privy  Counsellor  or  a parasite,  my  answer  would  be  a blow.  He 
has  charged  me  with  being  connected  with  the  rebels ; the  charge 
is  utterly,  totally,  and  meanly  false.  Does  the  honorable  gentleman 
rely  on  the  report  of  the  House  of  Lords  for  the  foundation  of  his 
assertion  ? If  he  does,  I can  prove  to  the  committee  there  was  a 
physical  impossibility  of  that  report  being  true.  But  I scorn  to 
answer  any  man  for  my  conduct,  whether  he  be  a political  coxcomb 
or  whether  he  brought  himself  into  power  by  a false  glare  of  cour- 
age or  not.  I scorn  to  answer  any  wizard  of  the  Castle  throwing 
himself  into  fantastical  airs.  But  if  an  honorable  and  independent 
man  were  to  make  a charge  against  me,  I would  say:  “You 
charge  me  with  having  an  intercourse  with  the  rebels,  and  you 
found  your  charge  upon  what  is  said  to  have  appeared  before  a 
committee  of  the  Lords.  Sir,  the  report  of  that  committee  is 
totally  and  egregiously  irregular.”  I will  read  a letter  from  Mr. 
Nelson,  who  had  been  examined  before  that  committee.  It  states 
that  what  the  report  represents  him  as  having  spoken  is  not  what 
he  sand. 23 


23  Mr.  Grattan  here  read  a letter  from  Mr.  Nelson  denying  that  he  had  any  connection 
with  Mr.  Grattan  as  charged  in  the  report  ; and  concluding  by  saying,  “ If  ever  was  mis- 
representation more  vile  than  that  put  into  my  mouth  by  the  report.'1'' 


Henry  Grattan. 


355 


From  the  situation  that  I held,  and  from  the  connections  I had 
in  the  city  of  Dublin,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  hold  intercourse 
with  various  descriptions  of  persons.  The  right  honorable  member 
might  as  well  have  been  charged  with  a participation  in  the  guilt 
of  those  traitors ; for  he  had  communicated  with  some  of  those 
very  persons  on  the  subject  of  parliamentary  reform.  The  Irish 
Government,  too,  were  in  communication  with  some  of  them. 

The  right  honorable  member  has  told  me  I deserted  a profession 
where  wealth  and  station  were  the  reward  of  industry  and  talent. 
If  I mistake  not,  that  gentleman  endeavored  to  obtain  those  re- 
wards by  the  same  means ; but  he  soon  deserted  the  occupation  of 
a barrister  for  those  of  a parasite  and  pander.  He  fled  from  the 
labor  of  study  to  flatter  at  the  table  of  the  great.  He  found  the 
lord’s  parlor  a better  sphere  for  his  exertions  than  the  hall  of  the 
Four  Courts  ; the  house  of  a great  man  a more  convenient  way  to 
power  and  to  place  ; and  that  it  was  easier  for  a statesman  of  mid- 
dling talents  to  sell  his  friends  than  for  a lawyer  of  no  talents  to 
sell  his  clients. 

For  myself,  whatever  corporate  or  other  bodies  have  said  or  done 
to  me,  I from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  forgive  them.  I feel  I have 
done  too  much  for  my  country  to  be  vexed  at  them.  I would 
rather  that  they  should  not  feel  or  acknowledge  what  I have  done 
for  them,  and  call  me  traitor,  than  have  reason  to  say  I sold  them. 
I will  always  defend  myself  against  the  assassin,  but  with  large 
bodies  it  is  different.  To  the  people  I will  bow  ; they  may  be  my 
enemy,  I never  shall  be  theirs. 

At  the  emancipation  of  Ireland  in  1782  I took  a leading  part  in 
the  foundation  of  that  Constitution  which  is  now  endeavored  to  be 
destroyed.  Of  that  Constitution  I was  the  author ; in  that  Con- 
stitution I glory  ; and  for  it  the  honorable  gentleman  should  bestow 
praise,  not  invent  calumny.  Notwithstanding  my  weak  state  of 
body,  I come  to  give  my  last  testimony  to  this  Union,  so  fatal  to 
the  liberties  and  interests  of  my  country.  I come  to  make  common 
cause  with  these  honorable  and  virtuous  gentlemen  about  me  ; to 
try  and  save  the  Constitution ; or  if  not  save  the  Constitution,  at 
least  to  save  our  characters,  and  remove  from  our  graves  the  foul 
disgrace  of  standing  apart  while  a deadly  blow  is  aimed  at  the  in- 
dependence of  our  country. 

The  right  honorable  gentleman  says  I fled  from  the  country  after 
exciting  rebellion,  and  that  I have  returned  to  raise  another.  No 


356  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

such  thing.  The  charge  is  false.  The  civil  war  had  not  com- 
menced when  I left  the  kingdom,  and  I could  not  have  returned 
without  taking  a part.  On  the  one  side  there  was  the  camp  of  the 
rebel,  on  the  other  the  camp  of  the  minister,  a greater  traitor 
than  that  rebel.  The  stronghold  of  the  Constitution  was  nowhere 
to  be  found.  I agree  that  the  rebel  who  rises  against  the  Govern- 
ment should  have  suffered,  but  I missed  on  the  scaffold  the  right 
honorable  gentleman.  Two  desperate  parties  were  in  arms  against 
the  Constitution.  The  right  honorable  gentlemen  belonged  to  one 
of  those  parties,  and  deserved  death.  I could  not  join  the  rebels  ; 
I could  not  join  the  Government ; I could  not  join  torture  ; I could 
not  join  half -hanging  ; I could  not  join  free  quarter  ; I could  take 
part  with  none.  I was,  therefore,  absent  from  a scene  where  I 
could  not  be  active  without  self-reproach,  nor  indifferent  with 
safety. 

Many  honorable  gentlemen  thought  differently  from  me.  I re- 
spect their  opinions,  but  I keep  my  own  ; and  I think  now,  as  I 
thought  then,  that  the  treason  of  the  minister  against  the  liberties 
of  the  people  was  infinitely  worse  than  the  rebellion  of  the  people 
against  the  minister. 

I have  returned,  not  as  the  right  honorable  member  has  said,  to 
raise  another  storm,  I have  returned  to  discharge  an  honorable  debt 
of  gratitude  to  my  country,  that  conferred  a great  reward  for  past 
services,  which,  I am  proud  to  say,  was  not  greater  than  my  deserts. 
I have  returned  to  protect  that  Constitution  of  which  I was  the 
parent  and  the  founder  from  the  assassination  of  such  men  as  the 
honorable  gentleman  and  his  unworthy  associates.  They  are  cor- 
rupt— they  are  seditious — and  they,  at  this  very  moment,  are  in  a 
conspiracy  against  their  country.  I have  returned  to  refute  a libel 
as  false  as  it  is  malicious,  given  to  the  public  under  the  appellation 
of  a report  of  the  committee  of  the  Lords.  Here  I stand  ready  for 
impeachment  or  trial.  I dare  accusation.  I defy  the  honorable 
gentleman ; I defy  the  Government ; I defy  their  whole  phalanx. 
Let  them  come  forth.  I tell  the  ministers  I will  neither  give  them 
quarter  nor  take  it.  I am  here  to  lay  the  shattered  remains  of  my 
constitution  on  the  floor  of  this  House  in  defence  of  the  liberties  of 
my  country. 


THE  RIGHT  REV.  JAMES  DOYLE , D.D., 

O.S.A., 


BISHOP  OF  KILDARE  AND  LEIGHLIN. 

“Dr.  Doyle,  the  incomparable  ‘ J.  K.  L.’” — Arnold. 

‘ i Behold  great  Doyle  ! with  reverence  speak  his  name — 

His  life  was  virtue  and  his  death  was  fame  ! ” 

“ The  most  powerful  faculty  in  Dr.  Doyle’s  genius  was  his  vigorous  understand- 
ing. Perhaps  no  writer  was  ever  more  free  from  stiffness  and  mannerism.  He 
was  always  practical  and  to  the  point.” — Giles. 

WERE  a person  to  visit  London  a little  more  than  half  a cen- 
tury ago,  and  were  he  permitted  to  traverse  the  halls  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  he  would  there  see  before  a select  committee  of  Eng- 
lish peers  a noble-looking  personage  wearing  the  habiliments  and  in- 
signia of  a Catholic  bishop.  On  further  enquiry  he  might  be  told 
that  this  distinguished  man  was  giving  evidence  on  the  state  of  the 
Irish  people,  endeavoring  to  enlighten  the  dark  and  narrow  minds 
of  bigoted  and  ignorant  statesmen,  and  eloquently  pleading  in  favor 
of  what  he  loved  next  to  God — his  native  land.  This  was  no  other 
than  the  subject  of  our  sketch,  Dr.  Doyle,  the  illustrious  Bishop  of 
Kildare  and  Leighlin. 

James  Doyle  was  born  near  the  town  of  New  Ross,  county  of  Wex- 
ford, in  1786.  His  father  was  a small  farmer,  an  upright,  but  very 
eccentric  man,  and  belonged  to  a family  whose  rank  was  once  high  in 
his  native  county. 1 Some  months  before  the  child’s  birth  his  father 
died,  and  his  support  and  education  devolved  on  his  mother,  “ a young 
woman  of  vigorous  and  almost  masculine  strength  of  judgment.”2 
Like  many  other  gifted  men,  James  doubtless  inherited  his  remark- 
able strength  of  character  from  his  mother.  In  his  twelfth  year 
the  boy  was  sent  to  a Catholic  academy  kept  by  a zealous  priest 
named  Father  Crane,  O.S.A.  Here  he  pursued  his  studies  until, 
becoming  of  canonical  age,  he  entered  the  novitiate  of  the  Augus- 
tinians,  at  Grantstown.  His  mind,  naturally  gifted  and  powerful, 

1 The  O’Doyles  were  an  ancient  Irish  sept. 

2 Fitzpatrick,  “Life  and  Times  of  Dr.  Doyle,”  vol.  L 

357 


353 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


was  imbued  with  a deep  religious  feeling,  the  result  of  early  and 
careful  training. 

In  1806,  young  Doyle  proceeded  to  the  continent  to  continue  his 
higher  studies.  Within  the  time-honored  walls  of  the  famous  Uni- 
versity of  Coimbra  he  labored  with  ceaseless  industry.  The  uncom- 
mon calibre  of  our  Irish  student’s  mind  was  soon  well-known.  But 
a storm  was  coming.  The  invasion  of  the  French  upset  everything. 
The  landing  of  Wellington  was  the  signal  for  resistance,  and  the 
students  of  Coimbra — foremost  among  who  was  Doyle — threw  aside 
their  books  and  assumed  the  helmet  and  the  sword,  to  aid  in  driving 
the  legions  of  Bonaparte  from  the  soil  of  Portugal. 

Doyle  had  now  reached  a period  in  life  when  many  dangers  beset 
his  path.  He  was  young,  was  living  in  stormy  times.  The  French 
Bevolution  had  swept  over  Europe,  uprooting  ancient  landmarks, 
overturning  almost  everything  social,  political,  and  religious.  The 
world  seemed  to  be  falling  back  into  chaos.  Voltaire  and  his  infidel 
works  did  much  to  complete  the  disorder  that  prevailed.  Doyle 
read  those  books.  He  was  even  surrounded  by  professed  infidels 
who  boasted  of  their  principles.  Such  dreadful  influences  gave,  for 
a time,  an  unhappy  bent  to  his  youthful  intellect.  Often  he  paced 
the  halls  of  his  Alma  Mater  revolving  within  himself  whether  he 
should  become  an  unbeliever  or  still  remain  a Christian. 

Speaking  of  this  period  of  his  life,  the  great  prelate  afterwards 
wrote : “ I recollect,  and  always  with  fear  and  trembling,  the  danger 
to  which  I exposed  the  gifts  of  faith  and  Christian  morality  which  I 
had  received  from  a bounteous  God ; and  since  I became  a man, 
and  was  enabled  to  think  like  a man,  I have  not  ceased  to  give 
thanks  to  the  Father  of  mercies,  who  did  not  deliver  me  over  to  the 
pride  and  presumption  of  my  own  heart.  But  even  then,  when  all 
things  which  could  have  an  influence  over  my  youthful  mind  com- 
bined to  induce  me  to  shake  off  the  yoke  of  Christ,  I was  arrested  by 
the  majesty  of  religion.  Her  innate  dignity,  her  grandeur  and  solem- 
nity, as  well  as  her  sweet  influence  upon  the  heart,  filled  me  with 
awe  and  veneration.  I examined  the  systems  of  religion  prevailing 
in  the  East;  I read  the  Koran  with  attention;  I perused  the  Jewish 
history,  and  the  history  of  Christ,  of  his  disciples,  and  of  his  Church, 
with  an  intense  interest,  and  I did  not  hesitate  to  continue  attached 
to  the  religion  of  our  Redeemer,  as  alone  worthy  of  God  ; and  being 
a Christian,  I could  not  fail  to  be  a Catholic.  Since  then  my  habits 
of  life  and  profession  have  rendered  me  familiar  at  least  with  the 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  O.S.A.  359 


doctrines  and  ordinances  of  divine  revelation,  and  I have  often 
exclaimed  with  Augustine  : ‘ 0 beauty  ever  ancient  and  ever  new  ! 
too  late  have  I known  thee,  too  late  have  I loved  thee/  ” * 

On  completing  a brilliant  course  of  studies  at  Coimbra,  Doyle  re- 
turned to  Ireland  in  1808.  By  uniting  labor  and  perseverance  to 
great  talents,  we  are  told  that  he  had  “outstripped  all  his  fellow- 
students,  and  was  qualified  to  teach  before  others  were  half  in- 
structed.” He  was  ordained  the  following  year.  In  1813  Father 
Doyle  obtained  a professorship  in  Carlow  College.  A11  anecdote  is 
related  in  connection  with  this  appointment.  He  was  introduced 
to  Dean  Staunton,  the  president.  “ What  can  you  teach  ? ” enquired 
the  Dean.  “Anything,”  replied  Doyle,  “from  A,  B,  C to  the 
c Third  Book  of  Canon  Law.’”  The  president  did  not  altogether 
like  the  confidence  of  the  answer,  and,  long  accustomed  to  the  tui- 
tion of  youth,  a rebuke  flowed  with  ease  from  his  lips.  “ Pray, 
young  man,  can  you  teach  and  practise  humility?”  “I  trust  I 
have  at  least  the  humility  to  feel,”  answered  Doyle,  “that  the  more 
I read  the  more  I see  how  ignorant  I have  been,  and  how  little  can 
at  best  be  known.”  The  president  was  so  struck  with  the  reply 
that  he  mused,  “ You’ll  do.” 3  4 Father  Doyle  was  first  appointed  to 
the  chair  of  rhetoric,  then  to  that  of  philosophy  and  mathematics, 
and  finally  elevated  to  the  professorship  of  theology  and  sacred 
Scripture.  In  the  discharge  of  all  these  highly  responsible  offices 
he  displayed  the  ability  of  a master  mind.  But  the  light  of  his 
life  could  not  be  hidden  under  a college  bushel ; when  only  in  his 
thirty-second  year  Doctor  Doyle  was  elevated  to  the  united  sees  of 
Kildare  and  Leighlin.5 

His  life,  henceforth,  was  given  with  unreserved  devotion  to  his 
God,  his  people,  his  native  Ireland.  “His  devotion  to  the  affairs 
of  his  diocese,”  writes  the  Hun  of  Kenmare,  “from  the  care  of  the 
very  poorest  of  his  people  to  the  supervision  of  his  clergy,  was  be- 
yond all  praise.”  6 * 8 

In  1822  Bishop  Doyle  came  out  as  a writer  of  marked  ability. 
Magee,  the  Protestant  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  had  insulted  the 

3 “ Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland.” 

4 Fitzpatrick's  “Life  and  Times  of  Dr.  Doyle.” 

5 He  was  appointed  at  the  unanimous  request— a rare  tribute  of  respect— of  the  Irish 

bishops  and  the  clergy  of  the  entire  diocese.  Dr.  R.  S.  Mackenzie  states  that  Doyle  was 
“ the  youngest  man  ever  raised  to  the  prelacy  in  Ireland.”— “ Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar,” 

vol.  i.,  p.  382,  note. 

8 “Life  of  Daniel  O'Connell.” 


360  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Catholics  in  a circular.  Dr.  Doyle  at  once  replied.  His  letters — , 
keen,  bold,  learned,  and  powerful — were  signed  “ J.  K.  L.”  The1 
public — so  little  accustomed  to  see  or  hear  a brave  word  in  favor  of 
the  down-trodden  Catholics — were  astonished ; and,  to  use  a com- 
mon expression,  Magee  was  extinguished.  “Who  is  the  writer?” 
was  the  question  asked  by  every  one.  It  looked  as  if  “Junius”  was 
yet  alive,  and  turned  Jesuit.  But  no  ; it  was  a greater  still.  It  was 
James,  Bishop  of  Kildare  and  Leighlin  ; hence  the  initials  “ J.  K.  L.” 

In  1824  Dr.  Doyle  sent  forth  to  the  world  an  able  and  eloquent 
work  entitled  “Vindication  of  the  Koman  Catholic  People  of  Ire- 
land.” In  the  same  year  he  wrote  his  celebrated  “Twelve  Letters 
on  the  State  of  Ireland.”  These,  in  their  way,  were  masterpieces. 
He  afterwards  published  the  Letters  in  book-form,  dedicating  them 
to  Daniel  O’Connell. 

Dr.  Doyle’s  Letters  threw  so  much  light  on  the  state  of  Ireland, 
and  were  so  frequently  quoted  in  the  British  Parliament,  that  he 
was  summoned  to  give  evidence  on  the  state  of  Ireland  before  a 
select  committee  of  peers  in  the  House  of  Lords.  This  occurred  in  * 
1825,  and  of  all  the  public  acts  of  his  life  this  was,  perhaps,  the 
greatest — certainly  one  requiring  great  abilities.  His  astonishing 
memory,  ripe  scholarship,  and  vast  knowledge  as  a theologian, 
jurist,  and  politician,  were  never  entirely  known  or  called  into  requi- 
sition until  this  occasion.  The  questions  asked  and  the  answers 
given  would  fill  a volume.  “ You  are  examining  Doyle  ? ” said  a peer 
to  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  as  they  met  in  the  portico  of  the  House. 
“Ho,  no,”  replied  the  Iron  Duke  dryly ; “ Doyle  is  examining  us.’ 
And  he  continued,  “That  Doyle  has  a prodigious  mind;  his  head  is 
as  clear  as  rock-water.  ” 7 

“ Lord ,”  said  Dr.  Doyle  afterwards,  “had  given  me  a volun- 

tary assurance  that  he  would  protect  me  throughout  the  examina- 
tion. My  name  was  called,  and  I entered.  What  was  my  surprise, 
as  I glanced  round  the  varied  array  of  faces  before  me,  to  find  no 

trace  of  Lord  ’s  countenance  ! ‘ Ah  ! ’ I soliloquized,  ‘ Lord 

has  abandoned  me  to  the  Philistines  ; but  there  is  another  and 

a greater  Lord  who  will  not  forsake  me  in  the  hour  of  need.’  Seve- 
ral peers  eagerly  put  questions  to  me.  I never  made  a reply  until 
I discovered  the  object  which  the  enquirer  had  in  view.  His  query, 
if  insidious,  I received  on  the  point  of  the  bayonet.  If  a direct 
reply  was  unavoidable,  I uttered  a mental  prayer  to  God  that  He 

7 Fitzpatrick,  “ Life  and  Times  of  Dr.  Doyle.” 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  OS. A.  361 


would  direct  and  protect  me  ; and  He  did  so.  I found  it  easier  to 
answer  the  bishops  than  the  lords.” 

“ Who  is  there,”  says  the  Morning  Chronicle , “of  the  Established 
clergy  of  England,  Ireland,  or  Scotland,  for  instance,  to  compare 
with  Dr.  Doyle  ? Compare  his  evidence  before  the  Poor-Law  Com- 
mittee with  that  of  Dr.  Chalmers,  and  the  superiority  appears 
immense.  ” 

The  effect  of  this  evidence  was  most  happy.  It  changed  the 
principles  of  many  British  lords,  who  from  inveterate  foes  of 
Ireland  were  transformed  into  fast  friends.  The  influence  of  Dr. 
Doyle’s  labors  in  the  cause  of  Catholic  emancipation  cannot  be  over- 
estimated. O’Connell  and  he  toiled  hand  in  hand  in  obtaining  that 
great  boon  for  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  the  British  Empire. 

“ His  influence,”  writes  Henry  Giles,  “ was  very  efficient  in  promot- 
ing O’Connell’s  election  for  Clare,  which  was  the  decisive  blow  that 
brought  the  Tory  statesmen  to  their  senses.  The  pen  of  Dr.  Doyle 
was  as  powerful  in  its  way  as  the  tongue  of  O’Connell.  Dr.  Doyle 
had  influence  over  classes  which  O’Connell  did  not  reach.  Dr. 
Doyle’s  writings  were  read  by  aristocratic  and  educated  men  of  all 
parties — men  who  would  not  listen  to  O’Connell,  and  whom,  if  they 
would,  O’Connell  could  not  convince.  O’Connell  had  the  ears  and 
hearts  of  the  masses ; Dr.  Doyle  had  the  attention  and  thoughts  of 
the  select.” 8 

We  have  not  space  to  speak  of  Dr.  Doyle  as  an  eloquent  preacher 
and  illustrious  bishop.  He  was  a bishop  of  bishops. 

“He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way.” 

“He  shone,”  writes  Mooney,  “a  continued  light  among  the 
faithful.  He  embodied  in  his  life  the  precepts,  beauty,  and  poetry 
of  religion.  He  pointed  the  way  to  Heaven  with  a hand  untar- 
nished and  unencumbered  by  grasped  wealth.  His  precepts  were 
delivered  in  fascinating  spells  of  eloquence,  unbroken  by  any  allu- 
sion to  money,  to  house,  or  to  lands.  He  exhibited  during  his 
episcopate  the  learning,  charity,  and  toleration  of  Fenelon  com- 
bined with  the  heroic  independence  of  St.  Thomas  a Becket.  His 
years  were  few  but  glorious.  Ireland  will  treasure  his  memory  to 
the  latest  generations.”9 


9 K Lectures  and  Essays.” 


9 “ History  of  Ireland. 


362  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Dr.  Doyle’s  unceasing  toils,  especially  the  numberless  letters, 
tracts,  and  essays  that  he  wrote,  acted  as  a continued  strain  on  his 
physical  and  mental  powers.  Indeed,  the  activity  of  his  mind  was 
fast  wearing  out  his  delicate  frame.  His  last  hours  were  eloquent 
expressions  of  faith,  hope,  and  charity.  But  a few  moments  before 
he  expired,  he  asked  to  be  laid  on  the  hard,  uncarpeted  floor,  that 
he  might  die  in  a manner  somewhat  similar  to  his  divine  Master. 
The  request  was  granted,  and  thus  lying  on  the  boards,  his  pure, 
great  soul  fortified  by  the  sacraments  of  the  Church,  died  this  illus- 
trious Irish  bishop  on  Sunday  morning,  June  16,  1834.  He  was 
only  in  his  forty-eighth  year. 

Dr.  Doyle,  who  was  unacquainted  with  “the  pride  that  apes 
humility,”  thus  describes  his  own  lofty  character  better  than  any 
other  pen  can  do  : “I  am  a churchman,  but  I am  unacquainted 
with  avarice,  and  I feel  no  worldly  ambition.  I am  attached  to  my 
profession,  but  I love  Christianity  more  than  its  earthly  appen- 
dages. I am  a Catholic  from  the  fullest  conviction  ; but  few  will 
accuse  me  of  bigotry.  I am  an  Irishman,  hating  injustice,  and 
abhorring  with  my  wdiole  soul  the  oppression  of  my  country ; but  I 
desire  to  heal  her  sores,  not  to  aggravate  her  sufferings.” 

“Dr.  Doyle,”  said  a celebrated  English  statesman,  “was  as  much 
superior  to  O’Connell  as  O’Connell  was  superior  to  other  men.” 

His  tomb  is  in  Carlow  Cathedral,  ornamented  with  a noble-look- 
ing figure  of  himself  from  Hogan’s  chisel.  O’Connell  relates  that 
when  this  statue  of  Dr.  Doyle  was  first  exhibited  Lord  Anglesey 
and  a party  from  Dublin  Castle  went  to  examine  it.  One  of  the 
party  said : “I  never  remember  seeing  Dr.  Doyle  in  that  remarkable 
position.”  “I  remember  it  well,”  interrupted  the  marquis. 
“When  he  was  giving  evidence  before  a committee  in  the  Lords, 
a peer  put  a ridiculous  question  which  touched  the  Catholic  doc- 
trine. Throwing  up  his  arm  just  in  that  commanding  way,  the 
bishop  said,  ‘ I did  not  think  there  was  a British  peer  so  ignorant 
as  to  ask  such  a question.’” 

Dr.  Doyle  was  a man  of  extraordinary  natural  gifts.  With  a pro- 
digious memory,  he  possessed  remarkable  discernment,  an  excellent 
judgment,  and  a masculine  courage  that  quailed  before  nothing. 
Indeed,  it  was  generally  well  known  that  fear  was  a feeling  utterly 
unknown  to  him.  In  manner  he  was  very  grave  and  dignified. 
Speaking  of  him  as  a professor  in  Carlow  College,  his  biographer 
writes  : “Although  Doyle  was  remarkably  youthful  in  appearance, 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  O.S.A.  363 


a frequent  expression  of  awe  grew  up  in  liis  immediate  presence. 
His  general  deportment  was  not  by  any  means  calculated  to  dimi- 
nish this  feeling.  Erect  as  a lath,  grave  as  a judge,  reserved,  dig- 
nified, and  austere,  he  was  feared  by  some,  beloved  by  those  who 
knew  him  intimately,  and  revered  by  all.  The  noon-day  sun  was 
not  more  spotless  than  his  dress  and  person.  ” 10 

“He  appeared  at  that  era  in  Irish  history,”  writes  Mooney, 
“ when  the  people  were  yet  in  the  most  torpid  state  of  despair, 
when  nothing  appeared  in  the  surrounding  gloom  but  objects  hor- 
rible to  the  sight.  He  entered  with  spirit,  with  honesty,  and  with 
unbounded  acquirements  the  great  political  and  religious  contro- 
versies which  then  shook  the  British  Empire.  Everything  that 
came  from  his  pen  or  his  tongue  had  weight.  His  mind  was  un- 
fathomable. His  thoughts  were  things,  maxims,  axioms,  shaped  in 
the  mould  of  justice,  learning,  philosophy,  and  religion.”  11 

Speaking  of  the  “Twelve  Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland,”  a 
work  of  364  pages,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  writes : “ Though  written 
rapidly,  with  a view  to  assist  the  researches  of  the  Parliamentary 
Committee  on  the  State  of  Ireland,  they  can  bear  the  severest  ordeal 
of  literary  criticism.  The  views  expressed  are  sound,  sensible, 
courageous ; the  majority  of  them  sparkle  with  the  freshness  of 
originality,  while  many  passages  swell  with  an  indignant  eloquence 
and  vigor,  which  Grattan  in  his  happiest  perorations  has  not 
surpassed.  ” 

“They  present,”  says  Rev.  Mr.  Brennan,  “a  rare  combination  of 
eloquence,  patriotism,  and  philosophy.  The  nerve,  and  unlabored 
simplicity  of  the  diction,  together  with  the  justness  of  the  remarks 
with  which  they  abound,  rendered  them  perhaps  the  most  popular 
literary  collection  that  has  ever  been  published  in  this  country.”  12 

We  have  not  space  to  point  out  the  rare  merits  of  this  great 
Irish  bishop’s  writings,  or  to  depict  their  numerous  beauties.  His 
diction,  like  his  intellect,  was  rich,  luminous,  splendid,  and  power- 
ful. With  greater  dignity  and  more  massive  strength,  he  possessed 
all  the  wit  and  sarcasm  of  “ Junius.”  Lord  Bacon  did  not  surpass 
“ J.  K.  L.”  in  pointed  brevity,  nor  was  Edmund  Burke  more  solid 
and  sublime. 


10  Fitzpatrick,  “ Life  and  Times  of  Dr.  Doyle.” 

11  “History  of  Ireland.” 

12  “Ecclesiastical  History  of  Ireland.” 


3^4 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


THE  STUDENTS’  ADIEU  TO  THEIR  ALMA  MATER. 

Moore,  in  his  autobiographical  sketch  of  his  life,  revives  the  old  remark  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  name  any  eminent  public  man,  unless  Pitt,  who  had  not,  at 
some  time,  tried  his  hand  at  verse.  Dr.  Doyle  was  no  exception  to  this  rule.  In 
the  summer  of  1812,  the  religious  students  of  the  Catholic  college  at  Ross  were 
about  to  depart  to  their  appointed  convents,  when  Dr.  Doyle — then  a priest — 
at  the  earnest  solicitation  of  the  warm-hearted  novices,  composed  the  following 
farewell  lines,  to  the  air  of  “ Bannows  Banks.” 

The  drooping  sun  concealed  his  rays  behind  the  cultured  hill ; 

The  lengthening  shade  forsook  the  flood,  or  faded  from  the  rill ; 
The  blue  smoke,  curling  from  the  cot,  seemed  lingering  to  the  view, 
As  if  in  nature’s  silent  hour  ’twould  hear  our  last  adieu. 

The  tuneful  bird  now  pensive  sat,  or  smoothed  its  languid  wing ; 

Its  notes  no  longer  closed  the  day,  nor  would  the  milkmaid  sing  ; 
The  blooming  meadow  turned  to  gray,  and  lost  its  lovelier  hue, 
When  we  by  nature’s  self  were  forced  to  take  our  last  adieu. 

All  human  ties  must  break  in  time,  new  scenes  old  scenes  replace; 
Hands  may  be  rent,  but  hearts  cannot  be  torn  apart  by  space. 
Affection  makes  one  sad  farewell,  and  love  springs  up  anew — 

Love,  the  best  passion  of  the  heart,  that  sanctions  our  adieu. 

With  minds  improved,  with  grateful  hearts,  we  leave  the  scene  we 
love, 

Where  social  virtues  fix  their  seat,  descended  from  above  ; 

Where  all  that  generous  nature  yields,  and  gentle  wishes  woo, 

Lie  round  about  our  college  hill,  that  hears  our  last  adieu. 

Hail,  College,  hail ! thou  blessed  abode,  where  innocence  and  mirth, 
Where  frequent  play  and  casual  feast,  made  paradise  on  earth  ; 
Mayst  thou  each  year  send  forth,  like  us,  a fond  and  fervent  few, 
Who,  when  the  hour  of  duty  comes,  will  bid  thy  walls  adieu. 

Ah  ! father  of  our  college  days,  and  must  we  go  and  leave 
Our  boyhood’s  prop,  our  manhood’s  pride,  our  dream  in  life’s  last 
eve  ? 

Parental  fondness  filled  thy  breast ; let  filial  tears  bedew 

These  cheeks,  made  cheerful  long  by  thee,  whom  now  we  bid  adieu. 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  OS. A.  365 


With  feelings  of  fraternal  love  each  heart  responds  for  all ; 

We  go,  “immortal  souls  to  save/’  obedient  to  our  call ; 

But  ere  we  leave  our  college  nest  to  cleave  life’s  tempest  through. 
Do  thou,  our  father  and  our  friend,  receive  our  last  adieu. 


ON  PARTIES  IN  IRELAND. 

[From  “Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland.”] 

My  Dear  Sir  : The  object  of  this  letter  is  to  give  you  some  idea 
of  the  state  of  parties  in  Ireland,  their  composition  and  ulterior 
views,  and  to  throw  some  light  on  the  character  of  our  gentry. 

The  country  is  divided  into  three  great  parties — the  Orange- 
men, the  Catholics,  and  the  Government  party,  besides  a vast  mass 
of  inert  matter,  or  what  Swift  would  call  prudent  men,  who,  solely 
intent  on  their  own  interest,  whisper  away  the  characters  of  all  the 
others,  pass  judgment  in  secret  upon  whatever  occurs,  are  never 
pleased  with  anything,  and  are  ready  to  pray  with  Cromwell  or 
cry  with  Charles,  but  not  until  the  contest  between  them  is  de- 
cided. 

The  Orange  party  are  next  to  the  Government  in  the  paucity 
of  their  numbers,  in  their  knowledge  of  court  discipline,  in  the 
array  of  their  responsible  offices,  in  their  legal  forms  and  proceed- 
ings, in  the  formality  of  their  attitude,  in  the  show  and  circum- 
stance of  their  dignity,  in  keeping  up  a standing  army,  in  adminis- 
tering oaths  of  allegiance,  in  having  a council  of  state,  plenipoten- 
tiaries, and  envoys,  with  a public  press  to  publish  and  defend  their 
proceedings. 

This  party  would  be  even  stronger  than  it  is,  and  more  than 
able  to  cope  with  either  of  the  other  two,  if  it  were  not  overbearing, 
haughty,  insolent,  and  cruel.  Monopoly  and  injustice  are  written 
on  its  standards,  oppression  is  its  watchword,  falsehood  and  slander 
are  its  heralds ; it  has  no  reason  or  justice  with  it,  but  it  is  so 
clamorous  and  so  menacing  and  so  unblushing  as  to  overwhelm  or 
confound  whomsoever  would  approach  it  with  argument,  or  seek  to 
treat  with  it  on  a basis  just,  useful,  or  honorable. 

This  party,  like  Catiline  and  Cethegus,  has  collected  into  its 
ranks  every  spendthrift,  every  idler,  every  punished  or  unpunished 
malefactor,  every  public  robber  and  private  delinquent,  all  the  gam- 
blers, all  those  whom  gluttony  or  extravagance  has  reduced  to  want ; 


366 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


in  fine,  all  who  love  commotion,  and  who  hope  to  live  by  corrup- 
tion or  to  rebuild  their  broken  fortunes  on  the  ruins  of  their 
country. 

There  is  also  a large  class  of  saints  or  fanatics,  another  of  con- 
scientious Protestants,  a third  of  traders  in  education,  with  almost 
the  entire  body  of  the  established  clergy,  who,  through  fear  or 
hatred  of  the  Catholics,  are  induced  to  give  their  support  to  the 
Orangemen.  These  classes  form,  in  appearance,  a neutral  power, 
but  constitute  in  reality  the  force  which  sustains  the  warfare  in  this 
country. 

Government  should  exist  for  the  sake  of  the  people,  and  not 
the  people  for  those  who  govern  them.  The  forms  of  speech  to 
which  we  are  accustomed  sanction  this  mode  of  expression,  and  we 
may  suppose,  therefore,  that  the  Government  here  is  formed  and 
carried  on  for  the  good  of  the  community.  The  Catholics,  there- 
fore, who  are,  morally  speaking,  the  people  of  this  country,  should 
engross  the  principal  attention  of  our  rulers ; their  interests  in  the 
state  of  Ireland  should  be  considered  like  those  of  other  subjects. 
Their  rank  or  station  or  property,  however  respectable,  should  not 
be  so  much  contemplated  as  their  numbers ; for  just  laws  make  no 
distinction  in  providing  for  the  happiness  and  security  of  the  rich 
more  than  of  the  poor.  To  treat  of  the  Catholics,  then,  as  of  a 
party  in  Ireland  is  not  altogether  correct,  according  to  this  theory  ; 
nor  again  is  it  just  in  point  of  law,  for  such  is  the  profound  wisdom 
of  our  laws  that  they  almost  ignore  the  existence  of  the  people,  and 
contemplate  as  subjects  men  who  are  nowhere  to  be  found. 

The  Catholics,  then,  under  the  fostering  care  of  penal  statutes, 
and  quite  unnoticed  by  the  laws  made  to  protect  and  foster  the 
faithful  subjects  of  this  part  of  the  realm,  have  grown  at  least  into 
a party. 

This  party  is  kept  in  a state  of  constant  excitement ; they  are 
goaded  by  the  Orangemen,  they  are  insulted  by  the  press,  they  are 
taunted  with  insult  by  the  education  societies,  the  distributors  of 
Bibles,  and  itinerant  saints ; they  are  stripped  naked  and  almost 
starved  by  the  squierarchy  and  church  ; the  Legislature  does  not  at- 
tend to  them  ; the  Government  does  not  protect  them  ; the  judges, 
who  would  not  give  a stone  to  them  for  bread,  are  generally  inac- 
cessible to  them  ; they  are  reduced  to  such  a state  that  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  them  look  to  death  for  repose,  as  the  exhausted 
traveller  looks  to  the  shadow  of  a great  rock  in  a land  fainting  from 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  OS. A.  367 


heat.  Add  to  these  causes  of  excitement  the  harangues  of  their 
own  leaders,  the  recollection  of  their  former  greatness,  the  history 
of  their  country,  recollections  “ pleasing  and  mournful  to  the  soul,” 
and  which  are  known  by  reading  or  by  tradition  to  them  all ; but, 
above  all,  wc  should  add  their  enthusiastic  attachment  to  the  faith 
of  their  fathers — a faith  rendered  more  and  more  dear  to  them  by 
being  daily  and  hourly  reviled.  When  you  have  considered  all  these 
things,  you  may  judge  of  the  state  of  feeling  which  pervades  the 
Catholic  population. 

Should  it  be  suffered  to  continue  ? Should  this  party  or  this 
people,  whichever  it  maybe  called,  remain  neglected  by  the  Legisla- 
ture— should  their  grievances  be  left  unredressed — should  their 
poor  be  left  to  perish — should  their  children  be  left  a prey  to  Evan- 
gelicals and  Methodists — should  their  religion  continue  to  be  in* 
suited — should  the  agent,  and  the  tithe-proctor,  and  the  church- 
warden, like  the  toads  and  locust,  come  still  in  succession  to  devour 
the  entire  fruit  of  their  industry — should  their  blood  when  wantonly 
spilled  go  unrevenged,  we  need  no  Pastorini  to  foretell  the  result. 
We  have  only  to  refer  to  our  own  history,  or  open  the  volume  of 
human  nature,  in  order  to  ascertain  it.  A Police  Bill,  and  a Tithe- 
composition  Bill,  and  an  Insurrection  Bill,  and  fifty  thousand  bayo- 
nets, may  repress  disturbances,  but  who  can  contemplate  a brave  and 
generous  people  so  abused  ? who  can  dwell  in  a country  so  accursed  ? 
What  man  can  appear  before  his  God  who  has  looked  patiently  at 
so  much  wrong,  or  who  has  not  contributed  by  every  legal  means 
to  relieve  his  fellow-creatures  from  sufferings  so  intense  ? 

How  often  have  I perceived  in  a congregation  of  some  thousand 
persons  how  the  very  mention  from  my  own  tongue  of  the  penal 
code  caused  every  eye  to  glisten  and  every  ear  to  stand  erect ! The 
trumpet  of  the  last  judgment,  if  sounded,  would  not  produce  a more 
perfect  stillness  in  any  assemblage  of  Irish  peasantry  than  a strong 
allusion  to  the  wrongs  we  suffer.  And  there  are  men  who  think 
that  the  country  can  be  improved  whilst  such  a temper  continues, 
or  that  this  temper  will  cease  whilst  emancipation  is  withheld. 
Vain  and  silly  thought  ! Men  who  reason  so  know  nothing  of 
human  nature,  or  if  they  do,  they  know  nothing  of  the  nature  of 
Irishmen. 

The  gentry  have  as  many  grades  as  there  were  steps  in  Jacob’s 
ladder.  Those  of  them  who  are  possessed  of  large  estates,  and  whose 
education  and  rank  should  lift  them  above  local  prejudices  and  bless 


36S  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

them  with  a knowledge  of  men  and  things,  are  for  the  greater  part 
absent  from  the  country  ; they  know  not  the  condition  of  their  ten- 
antry, unless  from  the  reports  of  their  agents,  some  of  whom,  to  my 
knowledge,  are  most  excellent  men,  whilst  others  of  them  are  un- 
feeling extortioners,  who  exercise  over  the  tenantry  an  inconceivable 
tyranny,  and  are  the  very  worst  description  of  oppressors.  I have 
the  honor  to  remain,  dear  sir,  J.  K.  L. 


THE  IRISH  AS  A PROFOUNDLY  RELIGIOUS  PEOPLE. 

[From  “Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland.”] 

The  Irish  are,  morally  speaking,  not  only  religious,  like  other 
nations,  but  entirely  devoted  to  religion.  The  geographical  position 
of  the  country,  its  soil  and  climate,  as  well  as  the  state  of  society, 
have  a strong  influence  in  forming  the  natural  temperament  of  the 
people.  The  Irish  people  are  more  sanguine  than  the  English,  less 
mercurial  than  the  French ; they  seem  to  be  compounded  of  both 
these  nations,  and  more  suited  than  either  to  seek  after  and  indulge 
in  spiritual  affections.  When  it  pleased  God  to  have  an  Island  of 
Saints  upon  earth,  he  prepared  Ireland  from  afar  for  this  high 
destiny.  Her  attachment  to  the  faith  once  delivered  to  her  was 
produced  by  many  concurrent  causes,  as  far  as  natural  means  are 
employed  by  Providence  to  produce  effects  of  a higher  kind.  The 
difference  of  language,  the  pride  of  a nation,  the  injustice  and  crimes 
of  those  who  would  introduce  amongst  us  a second  creed,  are  assigned 
as  the  causes  of  our  adhesion  to  that  which  we  first  received.  These 
causes  have  had  their  influence,  but  there  was  another  and  a stronger 
power  laboring  in  Ireland  for  the  faith  of  the  Gospel ; there  was  the 
natural  disposition  of  the  people  suited  to  a religion  which  satisfied 
the  mind  and  gratified  the  affections,  whilst  it  turned  them  away 
from  one  whose  origin,  as  it  appeared  to  us,  was  tainted,  and  which 
stripped  worship  of  substance  and  solemnity.  Hence,  the  aboriginal 
Irish  are  all  Catholics,  for  the  few  of  them  who  have  departed  from 
the  faith  of  their  fathers  only  appear  “ rari  nuntes  in  gurgite 
vasto.” 

To  these  are  joined,  especially  within  the  ancient  Pale,  great 
numbers  who  have  descended  from  the  first  settlers,  and  who  in 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle,  D.D.,  O.S. A.  369 


process  of  time  have  become  more  Irish  than  the  Irish  themselves. 
Every  year,  also,  adds  considerably  to  their  numbers,  not  only,  as  we 
suppose,  through  the  influence  of  divine  grace,  but  also  by  that  at- 
tractive power  which  abides  in  the  multitude ; so  that  were  it  not 
for  the  emoluments  and  pride  attached  to  Protestantism,  and  the 
artificial  modes  resorted  to  for  recruiting  its  strength,  there  would 
not  remain  in  three  provinces  of  Ireland,  amongst  the  middling  and 
lower  classes,  more  than  a mere  remnant  of  the  modern  faith.  These 
Catholics  have  for  nearly  three  centuries  been  passing  through  an 
ordeal  of  persecution  more  severe  than  any  recorded  in  history.  I 
have  read  of  the  persecutions  by  Nero,  Domitian,  Genseric,  and 
Attila,  with  all  the  barbarities  of  the  sixteenth  century ; I have  com- 
pared them  with  those  inflicted  on  my  own  country,  and  I protest 
to  God  that  the  latter,  in  my  opinion,  have  exceeded  in  duration, 
extent,  and  intensity,  all  that  has  ever  been  endured  by  mankind 
for  justice’  sake. 

The  Irish  Catholics  are  obliged  to  sweat  and  toil  for  those  very 
ministers  of  another  religion 13  who  contributed  to  forge  their  chains. 
Their  hay  and  com,  their  fleece  and  lambs,  with  the  roots  on  which  » 
they  feed,  they  are  still  compelled  to  offer  at  an  altar  which  they 
deem  profane.  They  still  are  bound  to  rebuild  and  ornament  their 
own  former  parish  church  and  spire,  that  they  may  stand  in  the 
midst  of  them  as  records  of  the  rights  of  conquest,  or  of  the  triumph 
of  law  over  equity  and  the  public  good.  They  still  have  to  attend 
the  bailiff  when  he  calls  with  the  warrant  of  the  churchwardens  to 
collect  their  last  shilling  (if  one  should  happen  to  remain),  that  the 
empty  church  may  have  a stove,  the  clerk  a surplice,  the  communion- 
table elements  to  be  sanctified,  though  perhaps  there  be  no  one  to 
partake  of  them  ; they  have  also  to  pay  a singer  and  a sexton,  but 
not  to  toll  a bell  for  them,  with  a schoolmaster,  perhaps,  but  one 
who  can  teach  the  lilies  how  to  grow,  as  he  has  no  pupils.  Such  is 
their  condition,  while  some  half-thatched  cabin  or  unfurnished 
house  collects  them  on  Sundays  to  render  thanks  to  God  for  even 
these  blessings,  and  to  tell  their  woes  to  Heaven  ! 


13  The  Anglican  or  Protestant  Church. 


370 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


THE  TRUE  FRIENDS  OF  THE  POOR  AND  THE  AFFLICTED. 

A PICTURE  OF  SUFFERING  IRELAND. 

[From  11  Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland.”] 

I am  laboring  as  the  advocate  of  the  poor,  of  tke  unprotected, 
and  of  the  distressed.  I can  ask  with  Cicero  liow  could  I fail  to  be 
interested  in  the  general  agitation  of  religious  and  political,  civil 
and  ecclesiastical  interests  ; or  how  could  I be  insensible  to  the  gene- 
rous impulse  of  our  nature  ? St.  Paul  himself  exclaims  : “ Quis 
infirmatur  et  ego  non  infir mor,  quis  scandilizatur  et  ego  non  urorp 
In  every  nation  a clergyman  is  separated  from  society  only  that 
he  may  labor  the  more  efficiently  for  his  fellow-men,  and  his  duty 
of  administering  to  their  temporal  wants  is  not  less  pressing  than 
that  of  devoting  himself  to  their  spiritual  concerns.  The  one  ought 
to  be  done  by  him,  and  the  other  ought  not  to  be  neglected. 

There  are  times  and  circumstances  when  he  is  justified,  nay, 
when  he  is  obliged,  to  mix  with  his  fellow-countrymen,  and  to  sus- 
pend his  clerical  functions  whilst  he  discharges  those  of  a member 
of  society.  I myself  have  once  been  placed  in  such  circumstances, 
and  devoted  many  a laborious  hour  to  the  service  of  a people  engaged 
in  the  defence  of  their  rights  and  liberties.  The  clerical  profession 
exalts  and  strengthens  the  natural  obligation  we  are  all  under  of 
laboring  for  our  country’s  welfare;  and  the  priests  and  prophets  of 
the  old  law  have  not  only  announced  and  administered  the  decrees 
of  Heaven,  but  have  aided  by  their  counsel  and  their  conduct  the 
society  to  which  Providence  attached  them.  In  the  Christian  dis- 
pensation priests  and  bishops  have  greatly  contributed  to  the  civili- 
zation and  improvement  of  mankind  ; they  have  restrained  ambi- 
tion, they  have  checked  turbulence,  they  have  enlightened  the 
councils  of  kings,  and  infused  their  own  wisdom  into  laws  and 
public  institutions.  Arts  and  sciences  are  their  debtors  ; history 
and  jurisprudence  have  been  cultivated  by  them.  They  have  been 
the  teachers  of  mankind,  and  have  alone  been  able  to  check  the  in- 
. solence  of  power,  or  plead  before  it  the  cause  of  the  oppressed. 

The  clergy  of  the  Catholic  Church  have  been  accused  of  many 
faults  ; but  in  no  nation  or  at  no  time — not  even  by  the  writers  of 
the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth — have  they  been  charged  with  be- 
traying this  sacred  trust,  or  embezzling  the  property  of  the  poor. 
In  Ireland,  above  all,  where  their  possessions  were  immense,  their 
hearts  were  never  corrupted  by  riches;  and,  whether  during  the 


The  Right  Rev . James  Doyle , D.D.,  OS.A.  371 


incursions  of  the  Danes,  or  the  civil  wars,  or  foreign  invasions, 
which  desolated  the  country,  it  was  the  clergy  who  repaired  the 
ravages  that  were  committed,  rebuilt  cities  and  churches,  restored 
the  fallen  seats  of  literature,  gave  solemnity  to  the  divine  worship, 
and  opened  numberless  asylums  for  the  poor.  Whilst  Ireland, 
though  a prey  to  many  evils,  was  blessed  with  such  a clergy,  her 
poor  required  no  extraordinary  aid  ; the  heavenly  virtue  of  charity 
was  seen  to  walk  unmolested  over  the  ruins  of  towns  and  cities,  to 
collect  the  wanderer,  to  shelter  the  houseless,  to  support  the  infirm, 
to  clothe  the  naked,  and  to  minister  to  every  species  of  human  dis- 
tress; but  “fuit  Ilium  et  ingens  gloria  Darclanidum  ! ” 

When  the  ancient  religion  was  expelled  from  her  possessions,  and 
another  inducted  in  her  place,  the  church  and  the  hospital  and  the 
cabin  of  the  destitute  became  alike  deserted,  or  fell  into  utter  ruin. 
This  change,  with  the  others  which  accompanied  or  followed  after 
it,  in  Ireland  threw  back  all  our  social  and  religious  institutions  into 
what  is  generally  called  a state  of  nature — a state,  such  as  Hobbes 
describes  it,  in  which  men  are  always  arming  or  engaged  in  war. 
Clergymen,14  so-called,  still  appeared  amongst  their  fellow-men,  but 
they  were  no  longer  “ of  the  seed  of  those  by  whom  salvation  had 
been  wrought  in  Israel  ” ; they  did  not  consider  it  a portion  of  their 
duty  to  be  employed  in  works  of  mercy,  or  to  devote  the  property 
which  had  passed  into  their  hands  to  those  sacred  purposes  for 
which  it  was  originally  destined.  They  were,  like  the  generality  of 
mankind,  solely  intent  on  individual  gain,  or  the  support  or 
aggrandizement  of  their  families,  but  totally  regardless  of  those 
sublime  virtues  or  exalted  charities  which  the  G-ospel  recommends. 
They  found  themselves  vested  with  a title  to  the  property  of  the 
poor ; they  did  not  stop  to  enquire  whether  they  held  it  in  trust ; 
there  was  no  friend  to  humanity  who  would  impeach  them  for 
abuse,  and  they  appropriated  all,  everything  to  which  they  could 
extend  their  rapacious  grasp.  The  churches  were  suffered  to  de- 
cay, and  the  spacious  cloister  or  towering  dome  through  which  the 
voice  of  prayer  once  resounded  became  for  a while  the  resort  of  owls 
and  bats,  till  time  razed  their  foundations  and  mixed  up  their  ruins 
with  the  dust.  The  poor  were  cast  out  into  the  wilderness,  and 
left,  like  Ishmael,  to  die ; whilst  Ireland,  like  the  afflicted  mother 
of  the  rejected  child,  cast  her  last  sad  looks  towards  them,  and  then 
left  them  to  perish.  These  men  “ate  the  milk,  and  clothed  them- 

14  Ministers  of  the  Anglican  Church. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


372 

selves  with  the  wool,  and  killed  that  which  was  fat ; but  the  flock 
they  did  not  feed,  the  weak  they  did  not  strengthen,  and  that  which 
was  sick  they  did  not  heal,  neither  did  they  seek  for  that  which  was 
lost ; but  they  ruled  over  them  with  rigor  and  with  a high  hand.” 
They  could  not  he  blamed  ; they  had  a title  and  a calling  different 
from  their  predecessors ; 15  and  the  state,  from  which  they  derived 
their  commission,  could  not  infuse  into  them  virtues  which  can  only 
emanate  from  Christ. 

The  evidence  already  given  to  Parliament  shows  that  the  average 
wages  of  a laboring  man  in  Ireland  (and  a great  mass  of  the  poor 
are  laborers)  is  worth  scarcely  threepence  a day  ! Threepence 16 
a day  for  such  as  obtain  employment,  whilst  in  a family  where  one 
or  two  persons  are  employed  there  may  be  four,  perhaps  six,  others 
dependent  on  these  two  for  their  support  ! Good  God  ! an  entire 
family  to  be  lodged,  clothed,  fed,  on  threepence  a day  ! Less 
than  the  average  price  of  a single  stone  of  potatoes  ; equal  only  to 
the  value  of  a single  quart  of  oatmeal  ! What  further  illustration 
can  be  required  ? Why  refer  to  the  nakedness,  to  the  hunger  of 
individuals  ? Why  speak  of  parishes  receiving  extreme  unction  be- 
fore they  expired  of  hunger  ? Why  be  surprised  at  men  feeding  on 
manure ; of  contending  with  the  cattle  about  the  weeds  ; of  being 
lodged  in  huts  and  sleeping  on  the  clay  ; of  being  destitute  of 
energy,  of  education,  of  the  virtues  or  qualities  of  the  children  of 
men  ? Is  it  not  clear,  is  it  not  evident,  that  the  great  mass  of  the 
poor  are  in  a state  of  habitual  famine,  the  prey  of  every  mental  and 
bodily  disease  ? Why  are  we  surprised  at  the  spectres  who  haunt 
our  dwellings,  whose  tales  of  distress  rend  our  hearts — at  the  dis- 
tracted air  and  incoherent  language  of  the  wretched  father  who 
starts  from  the  presence  of  his  famished  wife  and  children,  and 
gives  vent  abroad  in  disjointed  sounds  to  the  agony  of  his  soul  ? 

How  often  have  I met  and  labored  to  console  such  a father  ! How 
often  have  I endeavored  to  justify  to  him  the  ways  of  Providence, 
and  check  the  blasphemy  against  Heaven  which  was  already  seated 
on  his  tongue  ! How  often  have  I seen  the  visage  of  youth,  which 
should  be  red  with  vigor,  pale  and  emaciated,  and  the  man  who 
had  scarcely  seen  his  fortieth  year  withered  like  the  autumn  leaf, 
and  his  face  furrowed  with  the  wrinkles  of  old  age  ! How  often 
has  the  virgin,  pure  and  spotless  as  the  snow  of  heaven,  detailed  to 
me  the  miseries  of  her  family,  her  own  destitution,  and  sought 

15  The  Catholic  clergy. 


18  About  five  cents. 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  O.S.A.  373 

through  the  ministry  of  Christ  for  some  supernatural  support 
whereby  to  resist  the  allurements  of  the  seducer  and  to  preserve  un- 
tainted the  dearest  virtue  of  her  soul  ! But  above  all,  how  often 
have  I viewed  with  my  eyes,  in  the  person  of  the  wife  and  of  the 
widow,  of  the  aged  and  the  orphan,  the  aggregate  of  all  the  misery 
which  it  was  possible  for  human  nature  to  sustain  ! And  how 
often  have  these  persons  disappeared  from  my  eyes,  returned  to 
their  wretched  abode,  and  closed  in  the  cold  embrace  of  death  their 
lives  and  their  misfortunes  ! What  light  can  be  shed  on  the  dis- 
tresses of  the  Irish  poor  by  statements  of  facts  when  their  notoriety 
and  extent  are  known  throughout  the  earth. 

But  Ireland,  always  unhappy,  always  oppressed,  is  reviled  when 
she  complains,  is  persecuted  when  she  struggles ; her  evils  are  suf- 
fered to  Corrode  her,  and  her  wrongs  are  never  to  be  redressed  ! 
We  look  to  her  pastures,  and  they  teem  with  milk  and  fatness  ; to 
her  fields,  and  they  are  covered  with  bread  ; to  her  flocks,  and  they 
are  numerous  as  the  bees  which  encircle  the  hive;  to  her  ports, 
they  are  safe  and  spacious ; to  her  rivers,  they  are  deep  and  navi- 
gable ; bo  her  inhabitants,  they  are  industrious,  brave,  and  intelli- 
gent as  any  people  on  earth;  to  her  position  on  the  globe,  and  she 
seems  to  be  intended  as  the  emporium  of  wealth,  as  the  mart  of 
universal  commerce ; and  yet,  . . . but  no,  we  will  not  state 
the  causes,  they  are  obvious  to  the  sight  and  to  the  touch;  it  is 
enough  that  the  mass  of  her  children  are  the  most  wretched  of  any 
civilized  people  on  the  globe. 


THE  CATHOLIC  RELIGION. 

[From  “ Vindication  of  the  Principles  of  the  Irish  Catholics.”] 

It  was  the  creed,  my  Lord,  of  a Charlemagne  and  of  a St.  Louis, 
of  an  Alfred  and  an  Edward,  of  the  monarchs  of  the  feudal  times 
as  well  as  of  the  Emperors  of  Greece  and  Rome.  It  was  believed 
at  Venice  and  at  Genoa,  in  Lucca  and  the  Helvetic  nations  in  the 
days  of  their  freedom  and  greatness  ; all  the  barons  of  the  middle 
ages,  all  the  free  cities  of  later  times,  professed  the  religion  we  now 
profess.  You  well  know,  my  Lord,  that  the  charter  of  British  free- 
dom and  the  common  law  of  England  have  their  origin  and  source 
in  Catholic  times.  Who  framed  the  free  constitutions  of  the  Spanish 
Goths  ? Who  preserved  science  and  literature  during  the  long  night 


374 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


of  the  middle  ages  ? Who  imported  literature  from  Constantinople 
and  opened  for  her  an  asylum  at  Rome,  Florence,  Padua,  Paris,  and 
Oxford  ? Who  polished  Europe  by  art  and  refined  her  by  legisla- 
tion ? Who  discovered  the  New  World  and  opened  a passage  to 
another  ? Who  were  the  masters  of  architecture,  of  painting,  and 
of  music  ? Who  invented  the  compass  and  the  art  of  printing  ? 
Who  were  the  poets,  the  historians,  the  jurists,  the  men  of  deep  re- 
search and  profound  literature  ? Who  have  exalted  human  nature 
and  made  man  appear  again  little  less  than  the  angels  ? Were  they 
not  almost  exclusively  the  professors  of  our  creed  ? Were  they  who 
created  and  professed  freedom  under  every  shape  and  form  unfit  for 
her  enjoyment  ? Were  men,  deemed  even  now  the  lights  of  the 
world  and  the  benefactors  of  the  human  race,  the  deluded  victims 
of  a slavish  superstition  ? But  what  is  there  in  our  creed  which 
renders  us  unfit  for  freedom  ? Is  it  the  doctrine  of  passive  obedi- 
ence ? No ; for  the  obedience  we  yield  to  authority  is  not  blind, 
but  reasonable.  Our  religion  does  not  create  despotism;  it  sup- 
ports every  established  constitution  which  is  not  opposed  to  the 
laws  of  nature,  unless  it  be  altered  by  those  who  are  entitled  to 
change  it.  In  Poland  it  supported  an  elective  monarch  ; in  France, 
an  hereditary  sovereign  ; in  Spain,  an  absolute  or  constitutional  king 
indifferently;  in  England,  when  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster 
contended,  it  declared  that  he  who  was  king  de  facto  was  entitled  to 
the  obedience  of  the  people.  During  the  reign  of  the  Tudors  there 
was  a faithful  adherence  of  the  Catholics  to  their  prince,  under 
trials  the  most  severe  and  galling,  because  the  Constitution  required 
it.  The  same  was  exhibited  by  them  to  the  ungrateful  race  of 
Stuart  ; but  since  the  expulsion  of  James  (foolishly  called  an  abdi- 
cation) have  they  not  adopted  with  the  nation  at  large  the  doctrine 
of  the  Revolution — “ that  the  crown  is  held  in  trust  for  the  benefit 
of  the  people,  and  that  should  the  monarch  violate  his  compact,  the 
subject  is  freed  from  the  bond  of  his  allegiance.”  Has  there  been 
any  form  of  government  ever  devised  by  man  to  which  the  religion 
of  Catholics  has  not  been  accommodated  ? Is  there  any  obligation, 
either  to  a prince  or  to  a constitution,  which  it  does  not  enforce  ? 

What,  my  Lord  ! is  the  allegiance  of  the  man  divided  who  gives 
to  Caesar  what  belongs  to  Caesar  and  to  God  what  belongs  to  God  ? 
Is  the  allegiance  of  the  priest  divided  who  yields  submission  to  his 
bishop  and  his  king  ? of  the  son  who  obeys  his  parent  and  his 
prince  ? And  yet  these  duties  are  not  more  distinct  than  those 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  0,S.A.  375 

which  we  owe  our  sovereign  and  our  spiritual  head.  Is  there  any 
man  in  society  who  has  not  distinct  duties  to  discharge  ? May  not 
the  same  person  be  the  head  of  a corporation  and  an  officer  of  the 
king?  a justice  of  the  peace,  perhaps,  and  a bankrupt  surgeon  with 
half  his  pay  ? And  are  the  duties  thus  imposed  upon  him  incom- 
patible with  one  another  ? If  the  Pope  can  define  that  the  Jewish 
Sabbath  is  dissolved  and  that  the  Lord’s  day  is  to  be  sanctified,  may 
not  this  be  believed  without  prejudice  to  the  act  of  settlement  or 
that  for  the  limitation  of  the  Crown  ? If  the  church  decree  that  on 
Fridays  her  children  shall  abstain  from  flesh-meat,  are  they  thereby 
controlled  from  obeying  the  king  when  he  summons  them  to  war  ? 

No,  I conclude  it  is  impossible  that  any  rational  man  could  sup- 
pose that  the  Catholics,  under  equal  laws,  would  be  less  loyal,  less 
faithful  subjects  than  any  others 


EDUCATION. 

Next  to  the  blessing  of  redemption  and  the  graces  consequent 
upon  it,  there  is  no  gift  bestowed  by  God  equal  in  value  to  a good 
education.  Other  advantages  are  enjoyed  by  the  body  ; this  belongs 
entirely  to  the  spirit.  Whatever  is  great,  or  good,  or  glorious  in  the 
works  of  men  is  the  fruit  of  educated  minds.  Wars,  conquests, 
commerce,  all  the  arts  of  industry  and  peace,  all  the  refinements  of 
life,  all  the  social  and  domestic  virtues,  all  the  refinements  and 
delicacies  of  mutual  intercourse  ; in  a word,  whatever  is  estimable 
amongst  men,  owes  its  origin,  increase,  and  perfection  to  the  exer- 
cise of  those  faculties  whose  improvement  is  the  object  of  educa- 
tion. Religion  herself  loses  half  her  beauty  and  influence  when  not 
attended  or  assisted  by  education,  and  her  powrer,  splendor,  and 
majesty  are  never  so  exalted  as  when  cultivated  genius  and  refined 
taste  become  her  heralds  or  her  handmaids.  Many  have  become 
fools  for  Christ,  and  by  their  simplicity  and  piety  exalted  the  glory 
of  the  cross;  but  Paul,  not  John,  was  the  apostle  of  nations,  and 
doctors,  mQre  even  than  prophets,  have  been  sent  to  declare  the 
truths  of  religion  before  kings  and  princes  and  the  nations  of  the 
earth.  Education  draws  forth  the  mind,  improves  its  faculties,  in- 
creases its  resources,  and  by  exercise  strengthens  and  augments  its 
powers.  I consider  it,  therefore,  of  inestimable  value  ; but,  like 
gold,  which  is  the  instrument  of  human  happiness,  it  is  and  always 


376 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


must  be  unequally  distributed  amongst  men.  Some  will  always  be 
unable  or  unwilling  to  acquire  it,  others  will  expend  it  prodigally 
or  pervert  it  to  the  worst  ends,  whilst  the  bulk  of  mankind  will 
always  be  more  or  less  excluded  from  its  possession.17 


LETTER  TO  HIS  NIECE. 

Carlow  College,18  4th  November,  1814. 

My  Dear  Mary  : I find  the  longer  a correspondence  is  inter- 
rupted the  more  difficult  it  is  to  resume  it.  My  situation  in  life, 
my  views,  my  prospects,  my  acquaintances  are  so  different  from 
yours,  and  so  little  known  to  you,  that  I can  scarcely  find  a subject 
for  a letter  when  I wish  to  write,  unless  I were  to  fill  it  with  expres- 
sions of  esteem  for  you  and  interest  in  your  welfare ; but  this 
would  be  useless  at  present. 

You  might  expect  that  I would  be  offering  you  advice,  and  so  I 
should  if  it  were  necessary  ; but  in  your  own  family  you  have  enougl 
to  consult,  and  my  only  wish  is  that  you  should  always  act  in  con- 
cert with  your  husband  and  mother,  and  at  all  times  prefer  their 
wishes  and  opinions  to  your  own. 

A thousand  things  occur  in  your  town  and  county,  and  yet  you 
stand  so  much  on  ceremony  with  me  that  you  would  not  write  me  a 
single  word  unless  I had  formally  requested  of  you  to  do  so. 

As  to  myself,  I have  little  to  say ; if  good  health  and  a good  fire- 
side, plenty  of  labor,  plenty  of  money,19  and  a good  name  be  advan- 
tages, I enjoy  them  to  the  fullest  extent.  I feel  contented;  and, 
except  when  a recollection  of  poor  Pat 20  disturbs  my  mind,  I might 
say  that  none  of  my  family  can  be  more  happy.  Providence  has 
been  particularly  kind  to  me.  I strive  to  thank  God  every  day ; 
and,  as  I pray  for  you  as  well  as  myself,  I hope  you  will  do  the 
same  for  me  in  your  turn. 

I had  promised  to  spend  the  Christmas  vacation  at  Kilkenny 
with  Dr.  Marum ; but  as  he  is  about  to  be  consecrated  Bishop  of 
Ossory,  he  may  be  so  occupied  that  I would  not  wish  to  intrude  on 
him.  Adieu. 

Believe  me,  most  truly  and  affectionately,  yours, 

J.  Doyle. 

17  “ Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland,”  letter  vi. 

18  At  this  date  Dr.  Doyle  was  a professor  in  Carlow  College. 

19  His  salary  as  professor  was  $125  a year.  The  apostolic  Doyle  considered  this 
“ plenty.” 

20  His  brother,  a gifted  young  lawyer,  who  died  some  time  before. 


The  Right  Rev . James  Doyle , D.D.,  OS. A.  377 


LETTER  TO  A NUN  21  IN  DUBLIN. 

Robertstown,  29  th  April,  1824. 

My  Dear  Mariana  : After  straying  through  almost  every  part 
of  this  diocese,  like  your  last  letter,  I find  myself  here  in  the  midst 
of  an  immense  hotel,  through  which  all  the  elements  are  driving 
furiously,  and  having  packed  up  my  papers  and  finished  about 
half  a dozen  letters,  I fold  my  arms  and  put  myself  to  think  on  what 
1 have  next  to  do. 

Your  letter,  endorsed  by  the  postmarks  of  the  various  towns, 
ending  with  Derrig  or  Derg,  through  which  it  had  been  missent, 
occurred  to  me  as  still  waiting  amongst  others  to  be  disposed  of, 
and,  though  my  head  is  confused  and  my  spirits  exhausted,  I am 
resolved  to  tell  you  that  I am  strongly  inclined  to  go  up  to  Dublin 
to  tell  you  some  silly  story  by  way  of  apology  for  not  replying  to 
your  letters  ; but  as  I may  be  obliged  to  take  some  other  direction, 
it  is  necessary,  I suppose,  to  inform  you  that  when  your  last  note 
reached  me  I was  just  leaving  home  with  an  intention  of  seeing 
you  before  my  return.  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  also,  when  leaving  Carlow 
promised  to  see  you,  to  present  you  with  my  compliments,  and  to 
tell  me  on  his  return  all  the  good  news  he  could  collect  of  you  and 
of  my  dear  Catherine.22  The  favorable  account  you  gave  in  your 
letter  of  the  state  of  her  health  lessened  my  anxiety  about  it,  and 
increased  my  desire  of  seeing  her,  should  I be  able  to  go  to  Dublin, 
and  ascertain  with  my  own  eyes  that  improvement  which  I so  anx- 
iously wish  for. 

From  the  exhausted  state  of  my  mind,  I am  unable  to  write  you  a 
very  long  letter.  Iam  just  going  to  dine  at  Mr.  Dease’s.  I must  re- 
main in  that  neighborhood  until  after  Sunday,  and  whether  I can 
go  up  to  town  before  my  return  is  somewhat  uncertain.  If  not,  I 
shall  be  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  my  dear  child  until  June 
next,  when  she  may  be  so  much  restored  as  to  come  to  cull  the 
flowers  at  old  Derrig,  which  always  droop  in  the  absence  of  the 
Hermit  [Dr.  Doyle],  who  unhappily  is  driven  from  them  in  the  sum- 
mer ; but  probably  they  might  continue  in  bloom  till  his  return  if  only 
a genial  breath  fell  upon  them  from  the  countenance  of  his  friend,  or 
a tear  of  sympathy  for  the  absence  of  their  solitary  guardian.  Tell 

21  Mariana  was  an  accomplished  young  Irish  lady,  the  daughter  of  a Protestant  banker. 
She  became  a Catholic,  and  finally  a religious,  and  found  a wise  and  dear  friend  in  Dr. 
Doyle.  Many  years  afterwards  she  became  superioress  of  a convent. 

22  Mariana’s  sister,  who  had  also  embraced  the  ancient  faith. 


3/3 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


her  how  truly  I rejoice  at  the  prospect  of  her  thorough  recovery. 
Bless  the  little,  the  good  Sarah  for  her  blessing  to  me,  and  with  best 
respects  to  her  who  is  blessed  by  you  all — your  mother — believe  me 
always,  dear  Mariana,  etc. 

J.  Doyle. 


LETTER  IN  REPLY  TO  A “WOLFF23  IN  SHEEP’S  CLOTHING.” 

Carlow,  17th  October,  1826. 

Sir  : I have  received  your  letter  written  at  Knaresborough.  I 
regret  that  a young  person,  such  as  you  are,  should  continue  in  the 
delusion  in  which  you  seem  to  live.  It  is,  perhaps,  my  duty  to  tell 
you  that  your  “challenge,”  as  you  call  it,  excited  in  this  county 
nought  but  ridicule,  and  that  you  might  as  justly  expect  one  of  the 
judges  in  the  courts  of  law  to  descend  from  the  bench  and  dispute 
with  you  about  the  code  which  he  administers  as  to  hope  that  any 
Catholic  bishop  would  attend  to  your  “ challenge.” 

My  dear  young  man,  you  are  either  deceived,  or  seeking  to  deceive 
others.  I did  not  refuse  to  see  you  ; I refused  to  admit  you  to  re- 
side in  my  family,  and  for  the  reasons  explained  in  my  note  to  you 
on  the  subject.  Did  you  at  any  time  call  upon  me  to  consult  with 
me  as  to  what  you  should  do,  or  to  enquire  what  you  want  to  know, 
I would  offer  to  you  the  best  advice  or  information  in  my  power.  I 
feel  for  you  nought  but  pity  and  compassion.  You  have  strayed 
from  the  truth.  You  are  very  much  occupied  with  yourself.  You 
err  greatly  as  to  your  own  value  or  efficiency.  You  are  not  capable 
of  rendering  service  to  your  brethren,  whether  Jews  or  Gentiles, 
whilst  you  yourself  continue  a victim  of  delusion  or  a hypocrite,  as 
you  must  be,  if  you  be  not  a fanatic. 

Your  correspondence  with  me  can  serve  no  good  purpose  ; may  I 
request,  therefore,  that  it  cease,  and  should  you  at  any  time  call 
upon  me,  pray  present  yourself  without  an  inclination  to  dispute, 
for  “if  any  one  love  disputes,  we  have  no  such  custom,”  says  aii 
Apostle.  J.  Doyle. 


23  Rev.  J.  Wolff  was  an  apostate  student  of  the  Propaganda.  He  came  to  Ireland  as  a 
Protestant  preacher,  and  one  of  his  eccentric  feats  was  to  issue  a “challenge’’  to  the  Ca- 
tholic bishops  of  Ireland  to  met  t him  in  argument  1 The  bishops,  of  course,  did  not  no- 
tice the  buzzing  theological  insect  Wolff,  finally,  addressed  himself  to  Dr.  Doyle,  who 
snuffed  him  out  with  the  foregoing  letter. 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.}  O.S.A.  379 


LETTER  TO  1IIS  NIECE. 

Carlow,  15th  August,  1828. 

My  Dear  Mary  : Since  J.  W handed  me  your  letter  I have 

had  little  leisure  to  reply  to  it,  but  as  I am  about  leaving  home  on 
my  visitation,  and  will  not  return  for  six  weeks,  I must  discharge 
my  debt  to  you,  though  it  is  now  late  at  night,  and  this  has  been 
with  me  a day  of  great  labor. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  your  constitution  should  be  altered  by  so 
many  and  so  severe  attacks,  and  it  may  be  that  Providence  will  re- 
new your  youth,  now  that  you  are  taught  how  to  use  it  well.  All 
things,  without  doubt,  work  together  for  the  good  of  the  elect,  and 
it  often  happens  that  nothing  less  than  continued  and  severe  illness 
would  preserve  them  in  the  fear  of  God  and  the  observance  of  his 
commands.  Unless  we  sigh  after  our  eternal  abode,  we  will  not 
enter  it,  and  when  all  things  are  agreeable  to  us  here  below  we 
rather  fear  than  wish  for  an  exchange.  I think,  therefore,  my  dear 
Mary,  considering  the  temporal  blessings  which  have  attended  you, 
that  if  you  had  not  been  chastened  by  the  pressure  of  the  cross,  you 
might  have  become  worldly  in  your  disposition,  tepid  in  the  exercise 
of  religion,  and  too  little  desirous  of  eternal  life.  I am  sure,  however 
great  my  affection  for  you — and  there  is  scarcely  any  person  whom 
I more  love — that  what  I esteem  most  in  you  is  that  religious  dis- 
position, that  patience  and  forgiveness  towards  others,  and  that 
cordial  charity  to  the  poor  with  which  our  good  God  has  always  in- 
spired you.  You  will  not  cease  to  thank  him  and  to  promote  his 
will  on  earth  whilst  you  remain  here,  and  whether  you  and  I often 
meet  on  this  side  of  the  grave  is  of  little  consequence. 

Our  mutual  interest  and  affection  for  each  other  will  not  be  di- 
minished, and  the  grace  of  Christ  and  the  virtue  of  his  holy  reli- 
gion will  enable  us  to  serve  each  other  by  our  mutual  prayers. 

I intend  to  keep  my  promise  of  seeing  you  at  the  time  I men- 
tioned, if  we  be  still  alive.  My  health  is  often  very  good  and  some- 
times not  so ; my  incessant  cares  and  labors  are  wearing  my  consti- 
tution, but  that  gives  me  no  concern.  I have  lived  long  enough  if 
I were  but  prepared  to  die;  but  the  day  or  the  hour  of  the  depart- 
ure is  known  only  to  God  ; our  business  is  to  be  always  prepared. 
Pierce  24  is  really  a very  good  boy ; I am  very  fond  of  him  and  hope 
he  will  be  virtuous.  As  to  his  talents,  they  are  sufficient ; I scarcely 


24  “ Pierce,”  the  bishop’s  nephew. 


380  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

wish  to  have  them  better.  Great  talents  are  often  a great  evil ; 
those  which  have  been  given  to  me  have  led  me  into  many  useless 
labors  and  desires ; they  are  like  riches,  which  render  the  way  to 
heaven  narrow  as  the  eye  of  an  needle.  Go  see  Peter,  and  remem- 
ber me  to  all  friends,  especially  to  your  mother  and  John ; and  be- 
lieve me,  my  dear  Mary,  most  affectionately  yours, 

J.  Doyle. 


LETTER  TO  DANIEL  O’CONNELL.26 

Carlow,  12th  January,  1829. 

My  Dear  Sir  : He  who  speaks  often  and  handles  exciting  topics 
will  not  fail  to  commit  mistakes  and  to  give  offence,  nor  can  a 
popular  assembly,  writhing  under  injustice,  be  justly  condemned 
for  the  excesses  into  which  it  may  be  betrayed. 

We  do  not  claim  exemption  from  error,  but  the  purity  of  our 
principles  entitles  all  we  do  and  say  to  the  most  charitable  construc- 
tion, whilst  those  who  oppose  and  condemn  us,  even  when  their 
language  is  fair  and  their  proceedings  moderate,  deserve  reproach, 
because  they  are  not  sustained  by  any  sound  principle  either  of 
justice  or  policy.  I think  I can  judge  without  passion,  and  I can 
find  nothing  in  the  conduct  of  our  opponents  respected.  Who  can 
respect  ignorance  or  stupidity  ? Who  can  defer  to  bigotry  or 
monopoly  ? All  opposition  is  founded  on  ignorance,  religious  in- 
tolerance, or  self-interest. 

When  you  proceeded  to  combat  this  opposition  in  Clare,  I saw  to 
its  fullest  extent  the  difficulties  and  dangers,  public  and  personal, 
to  be  encountered  ; but  I thought  they  ought  to  be  braved,  and  I 
cheered  you  upon  your  way.  You  were  well  fitted  for  that  contest, 
but  that  which  is  now  before  you  is  of  a different  and  more  delicate 
character.  Courage,  perseverance,  and  address  were  then  necessary, 
but  in  addition  to  them  you  now  require  Parliamentary  knowledge, 
great  fortitude,  and  that  cool  deliberation  which  cannot  be  circum- 
vented, but  knows  how  to  turn  every  occurrence  to  the  best  account. 

The  suaviter  in  modo  and  fortiter  in  re,  so  little  suited  to  us  Irish, 
would  be  always  useful  to  you,  but  in  your  approaching  struggle 
will  be  indispensable.  You  will  have  to  give  “honor  to  whom 
honor  is  due,”  whilst  you  enforce  the  rights  you  possess,  knowing 

25  This  was  written  shortly  after  O’Connell’s  election  as  M.P.  for  Clare. 


The  Right  Rev.  James  Doyle , D.D.,  OS. A.  381 


that  they  belong  to  you  even  as  the  crown  belongs  to  a king.  Were 
I not  of  a profession  which  prescribes  to  me  other  duties,  I should 
attend  you  to  the  door  of  the  House  of  Commons  and  share  in  your 
success,  for  success  must  attend  you ; but  at  home  I shall  pray  un- 
ceasingly to  him  who  holds  in  his  hands  the  hearts  of  men,  that 
he  may  direct  and  prosper  you  in  all  your  ways,  that  he  may 
vouchsafe  to  give  peace  in  our  days,  and  not  suffer  his  people  to  be 
tried  beyond  what  they  can  bear. 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

►f*  J.  Doyle. 


LETTER  TO  HIS  NIECE. 

Carlow,  26th  May,  1831. 

My  Dear  Mary  : You  may  be  assured  I participated  both  in 
your  anxiety  during  the  late  elections  and  in  your  joy  at  the  result. 
I am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  letters,  and  delayed  writing 
to  acknowledge  them  until  I should  receive  that  other  letter  which 
you  promised;  but  your  promise  was  like  most  of  those  made  at 
elections — not  to  be  relied  on ; and  having  despaired  of  its  fulfil- 
ment, I hasten  to  congratulate  you  and  all  our  friends  on  the  issue 
of  our  struggle  against  the  old  and  irreclaimable  enemies  of  our 
country. 

I should  never  again  have  boasted  of  my  native  country  had  she 
not  acted  now  as  she  has  done,  for  I knew  the  power  was  in  her  if 
she  had  only  virtue  to  exert  it ; and  if  she  had  not,  I would  resign 
her  to  the  Saxons  or  Normans,  and  attach  myself  to  some  more 
Celtic  soil.  I have,  however,  been  spared  the  pain  of  separation, 
and  I will  continue  attached  to  the  country  of  my  birth.  Our  vic- 
tory here  was  signal.  We  had  no  aid  but  God  and  our  own 
strength  ; but  when  a good  cause  is  well  conducted  it  succeeds  in 
spite  of  all  opposition. 

The  affairs  of  Ireland  are  beginning  to  improve,  but  they  are  only 
beginning.  We  have  many  difficulties  to  contend  with,  and  if  we 
relax  we  will  be  thrown  back ; for  our  enemies,  though  now  defeated, 
have  still  great  resources,  and  have  no  notion  of  quitting  the  field. 
You  have  an  excellent  representative  in  Mr.  Walker,  and  I trust 
Mr.  Lambert  will  realize  all  your  hopes  of  him.  Write  me  that 
long  letter  you  promised  when  your  head  is  composed.  Tell  John, 


382  The  Prose  a?id  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Richard,  and  all  my  friends  how  delighted  I was  with  the  exhibi- 
tion of  their  patriotism.  Say  everything  kind  for  me  to  your 
mother  and  to  the  family  at  Piercestown. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  Doyle. 


LETTER  TO  ANOTHER  NIECE. 

Carlow,  February  22,  1833. 

My  Dear  Kate  : I am  very  glad  to  hear  from  you,  and  particu- 
larly gratified  to  know  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  0’ was  about  to  be 

restored  for  some  time  longer  to  his  health  and  friends.  Of  all 
those  who  regret  his  pain  or  sympathize  with  him  in  his  suffer- 
ings, we  should  be  the  first,  as  we  always  enjoyed  the  advantage  of 
his  special  friendship  and  affectionate  regard.  Pay  him  a visit  for 
me  ; tell  him  how  much  I lamented  his  illness,  and  how  I rejoice  at 
the  prospect  of  his  recovery;  for  though  I hope  his  demise,  when- 
ever it  may  occur,  will  be  only  a removal  to  a happy  life,  still  I 
cannot  but  wish  that  his  stay  in  this  world  may  be  somewhat  more 
prolonged. 

It  is  well  that  you  have  not  been  visited  by  the  cholera,  which 
has  kept  us  in  a state  of  alarm  for  several  months.  How  are  all 
your  little  ones  ? When  you  write  to  me,  dear  Kate,  you  must 
change  your  mode  of  address.  What  you  use  is  too  stiff  and  school- 
like. You  must  be  familiar,  and  easy,  and  affectionate  when  writ- 
ing or  conversing  with  me;  so  begin  your  letters  with  “ My  Dear 
Uncle,”  and  end  them  in  the  same  way;  and  do  not  think  how  or 
what  you  write,  but  set  down  everything  that  comes  intoy  our  head, 
as  a child  tells  a story  to  a father.  Adieu. 

Yours  most  affectionately, 


J.  Doyle. 


GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


‘ ‘ A sure  test,  it  has  been  often  said,  as  to  the  good  influence  of  a writer  is 
that  when  we  lay  aside  his  book  we  feel  better  in  ourselves,  and  we  think  better 
of  others.  This  test,  I believe,  Gerald  GrifBn  can  safely  stand.” — Giles. 

“Poetry  was  his  first  and  greatest  inspiration,  and  if  his  natural  bent  had 
been  properly  encouraged,  he  would  probably  have  been  the  greatest  of  the  Irish 
poets.” — Hayes. 

THE  name  of  Gerald  Griffin  is  one  of  the  purest  and  brightest  in 
the  history  of  literature.  It  is  surrounded  by  a halo  of  glory, 
and  virtue,  and  romance. 

Gerald,  the  ninth  son  of  Patrick  Griffin,  was  born  “in  one  of  the 
most  ancient  and  celebrated  parts  ” of  the  city  of  Limerick,  on  De- 
cember 12,  1803.  His  parents  belonged  to  old  Irish  and  Catholic 
families  of  great  respectability.  His  father  was  a man  of  intelli- 
gence, and  if  remarkable  for  anything,  it  was  his  quiet  humor  and 
unruffled  good  nature.  His  mother  was  a lady  of  great  elevation  of 
character,  religious,  earnest,  and  very  affectionate.  “She  was,” 
writes  Gerald’s  biographer,1  “a  person  of  exceedingly  fine  taste  on 
most  subjects,  particularly  on  literature,  for  which  she  had  a strong 
original  turn,  and  which  was  indeed  her  passion.”  Her  passion  for 
letters  and  her  deep  sensibility,  “the  restless  and  inexhaustible 
fountain  of  so  much  happiness  and  so  much  pain,  she  handed  down 
to  her  son  Gerald  in  all  its  entireness.”  2 

Of  his  first  schoolmaster  an  anecdote  is  related.  Mrs.  Griffin 
went  to  school  with  the  boys  on  the  first  day  of  their  entrance. 
“Mr.  MacEligot,”  said  she,  “you  will  oblige  me  very  much  by  pay- 
ing particular  attention  to  the  boys’  pronounciation  and  making . 
them  perfect  in  their  reading.”  He  looked  at  her  with  astonish- 
ment. “Madam,”  he  abruptly  exclaimed,  “you  had  better  take 
your  children  home;  I can  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.”  She 
expressed  some  surprise.  “Perhaps,  Mrs.  Griffin,”  said  he,  after  a 
pause,  “you  are  not  aware  that  there  are  only  three  persons  in  Ire- 
land who  know  how  to  read.”  “Three!”  said  she.  “Yes, 

1 Gerald’s  “ Life,”  written  by  his  brother,  Daniel  Griffin,  is  one  of  the  most  charming 
biographies  in  the  English  language. 

2 “ Life  of  Griffin,”  by  his  brother. 


383 


384 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


madam,  there  are  only  three — the  Bishop  of  Killaloe,  the  Earl  of 
Clare,  and  your  humble  servant.  Reading,  madam,  is  a natural 
gift,  not  an  acquirement.  If  you  choose  to  expect  impossibilities, 
you  had  better  take  your  children  home.”  Mrs.  Griffin  found 
much  difficulty  in  keeping  her  countenance;  hut,  confessing  her 
ignorance  of  this  important  fact,  she  gave  the  able  but  vain  and  ec- 
centric pedagogue  3 to  understand  that  she  would  not  look  for  a 
degree  of  perfection  so  rarely  attainable,  and  the  matter  was  made 
up. 

In  1810,  Gerald  being  in  his  seventh  year,  Mr.  Griffin  with  his 
family  moved  from  the  city  to  a place  in  the  country,  which  he 
named  Fairy  Lawn.  It  was  situated  on  the  Shannon,  about  twenty- 
eight  miles  from  Limerick.  Here  young  Griffin,  either  at  school  or 
at  home,  received  the  greater  part  of  his  education.  He  read 
widely,  and  acquired  a good  knowledge  of  classical  literature.  Here 
he  also  learned  to  read  and  admire  the  works  of  God  in  the  beau- 
ties of  nature.  On  the  banks  of  the  lordly  Shannon,  in  the  solitude 
of  the  fine  fields  and  woods,  or  in  the  solemn  stillness  of  grand  old 
ruins,  he  had  the  training  which  was  best  suited  to  his  character  and 
genius.  The  ruined  abbey  and  the  picturesque  hillside  were  to  him 
poems  which  yielded  ideas  lofty  and  sublime.  “ The  influence  on 
his  mind,”  writes  Henry  Giles,  “ of  natural  beauty  and  of  ancient 
traditions  may  be  traced  in  all  his  writings,  both  of  poetry  and  of 
prose.  He  had  equally  a passion  for  nature  and  a passion  for  the 
past.” 4 

After  the  Griffin  family  had  lived  in  Fairy  Lawn  for  a consider- 
able number  of  years,  they  were  induced  to  emigrate  to  America  by 
an  elder  brother  of  Gerald’s,  an  officer  in  the  British  army.  This 
occurred  in  1820.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Griffin,  with  a portion  of  the 
family,  chose  for  their  future  abode  a sweet  spot  in  Pennsylvania,  in 
Susquehanna  County.  In  memory  of  their  former  Irish  home,  they 
called  it  Fairy  Lawn.  Gerald,  who  was  intended  for  the  medical 
profession,  remained  in  Ireland  under  the  guardianship  of  an  older 
brother,  Dr.  William  Griffin,  who  took  up  his  residence  at  Adare, 
about  ten  miles  from  Limerick.  Two  sisters  and  his  brother 
Daniel — afterwards  Gerald’s  biographer — also  remained  in  the  old 


3 One  of  Mr.  MacEligot’s  advertisements  began  thus : “ When  ponderous  pollysyllables 
promulgate  professional  powers  ” ! What  alliterative  bombast  ! We  hope  Mr.  MacEli. 
got’s  elocution  was  better  than  his  style  of  writing.. 

4 “ Lectures  and  Essays.” 


Gerald  Griffin . 


335 


land.  Under  his  excellent  brother’s  instruction,  Gerald  made  some 
progress  in  his  medical  studies,  until  that  passion  arose  which  soon 
swallowed  up  all  other  desires. 

When  a mere  child  he  exhibited  his  love  of  poetry.  He  read  the 
poets  with  delight.  The  little  fellow  had  a scrap-book  into  which 
he  carefully  copied  many  of  Moore’s  “ Melodies.”  He  also  had  “ a 
secret  drawer  in  which  he  kept  papers,  and  it  was  whispered  that  he 
wrote  scraps  and  put  them  there.”  All  this  in  the  sweet  days  of 
boyhood — 

“ The  shining  days  when  life  is  new, 

And  all  is  bright  as  morning  dew.” 

Youth  came,  and  with  it  arose  higher  thoughts,  higher  aspirations, 
and  loftier  schemes.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  wrote  his  drama 
of  “ Aguire,”  of  which  his  brother,  Dr.  Griffin,  thought  so  highly 
that  he  consented  to  Gerald’s  going  to  London  to  seek  his  fortune 
as  a dramatic  writer.  Gerald  had  early  conceived  the  idea — a some- 
what romantic  one — of  reforming  the  modern  drama.  In  the  fall  of 
1823 — in  his  twentieth  year — the  gifted  and  enthusiastic  young 
Irishman  entered  the  capital  of  England  unknown,  unfriended, 
scantily  provided  with  means,  having  no  other  weapon  or  armor  to 
fight  the  battle  of  life,  upon  which  he  was  about  to  enter,  than  a 
facile  pen,  a good  constitution,  a well-balanced  mind,  and  indomi- 
table perseverance,  and  the  patient,  hopeful  spirit  of  true  genius. 
There,  in  the  “ modern  Babylon,”  his  life  for  nearly  three  weary 
years  was  a prolonged  struggle,  first  for  recognition  and  then  for 
existence  itself.  It  was  dreadful  up-hill  work.  He  was  sternly 
obliged  “ to  labor  and  to  wait.”  Often  with  an  empty  stomach,  a 
sad  heart,  and  shabby  garments  he  toiled  away,  the  glimmering 
taper  of  hope  cheering  him  on,  and  the  spirit  of  a bold  and  resolute 
independence  nerving  him  in  his  destitution  and  distress. 

In  July,  1824,  he  published  in  the  Literary  Gazette  a poem  tha 
first  stanza  of  which  is  truly  sad  and  expressive  of  his  London  life: 

“ My  soul  is  sick  and  lone( 

No  social  ties  its  love  entwine  ; 

A heart  upon  a desert  thrown 
Beats  not  in  solitude  like  mine  ; 

For  though  the  pleasant  sunlight  shine, 

It  shows  no  form  that  I may  own. 

And  closed  to  me  is  friendship’s  shrine — 

I am  alone — I am  alone ! ” 


386  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

In  a letter,  written  about  the  same  date,  to  his  sister  in  America, 
Griffin  says : “ You  have  no  idea  what  a heart-breaking  life  that  of 
a young  scribbler  beating  about  and  endeavoring  to  make  his  way  in 
London  is,  going  into  a bookseller’s  shop,  as  I have  often  done, 
and  being  obliged  to  praise  up  my  own  manuscript  to  induce  him 
to  look  at  it  at  all — for  there  is  so  much  competition  that  a person 
without  a name  will  not  even  get  a trial — while  he  puts  on  his  spec- 
tacles and  answers  your  self -commendation  with  a ‘ hum — um.’  A 
set  of  hardened  villains  ! and  yet  at  no  time  whatever  could  I have 
been  prevailed  upon  to  quit  London  altogether.  That  horrid 
word  failure— no  ! death  first.”  This  paragraph  is  the  key  to 
liis  difficulties  and  his  lofty  feelings.  Poor,  noble  Griffin  ! bright 
soul  of  genius!  “failure”  was  the  word  that  you  dreaded  most  to 
admit  into  your  dictionary  of  life. 

In  his  gifted  countryman,  Banim,  he  found  a good  and  generous 
friend.  Writing  in  the  early  part  of  1824,  he  says:  “ What  would 
I have  done  if  I had  not  found  Banim  ? I should  never  be  tired  of 
talking  and  thinking  of  Banim.  Mark  me  ! he  is  a man — the  only 
one  I have  met  since  I left  Ireland.  We  9 walked  over  Hyde  Park 
together  on  St.  Patrick’s  day,  and  renewed  our  home  recollections 
by  gathering  shamrocks  and  placing  them  in  our  hats,  even  under 
the  eye  of  John  Bull.” 

“ The  darkest  day  will  pass  away.” 

At  length,  Griffin’s  occasional  sketches  in  the  newspapers  and 
periodicals  attracted  attention.  He  worked  his  way  above  the  sur- 
face. In  the  autumn  of  1826  “ Holland-Tide  ” appeared.  , This 
work  gained  for  the  author  some  money,  and  the  applause  of  the 
critics.  It  was  followed  the  succeeding  year  by  the  “ Tales  of  the 
Munster  Festivals,”  thorough  Irish  stories,  evincing  great  powers  of 
observation  and  description.  Griffin’s  abilities  as  a novelist  were 
now  recognized  by  all,  and,  at  last,  he  had  discovered  his  true  voca- 
tion. Abandoning  the  drama,  to  which  he  had  hitherto  devoted 
much  attention,  he  resolved  to  bend  his  energies  to  prose  fiction. 
He  returned  to  Ireland  in  the  spring  of  1827,  and  in  the  quiet  of  his 
Irish  home  continued  to  give  the  world  his  masterpieces.  His 
splendid  work  “ The  Collegians  ” appeared  in  1829.  “ The  Duke 

of  Monmouth,”  “ The  Rivals  and  Tracey’s  Ambition,”  “ The  Inva- 


6 Himself  and  Banim. 


Gerald  Griffin.  387 

sion,”  “ The  Christian  Physiol ogist,”  and  otliers  were  issued  from 
the  press  from  time  to  time. 

Griffin  had  now  climbed  the  steep  and  rugged  hill  of  fame,  and 
upon  him  shone  the  sun  of  fortune.  Still,  his  immaculate  genius  was 
not  satisfied ; his  heart  craved  something  more.  God  alone  could  fill 
it,  and  to  God  he  resolved  to  dedicate  himself.  After  mature  delibe- 
ration, he  became  a Christian  Brother  in  1838.  In  this  new,  modest, 
and  sublime  sphere,  Brother  Joseph — such  was  Griffin’s  name  in  re- 
ligion— labored  with  all  the  earnestness  of  his  deep,  ardent  nature. 
Prom  the  monastery  in  Cork,  he  wrote  to  a friend  in  London  in 
1839 : “ I was  ordered  off  here  from  Dublin  last  June,  and  have  been 
since  enlightening  the  craniums  of  the  wondering  Paddies  in  this 
quarter,  who  learn  from  me  with  profound  amazement  and  profit  that 
O-X  spells  ox,  that  the  top  of  a map  is  the  north,  and  the  bottom  the 
south,  with  various  other  f branches  ’ ; as  also  that  they  ought  to  be 
good  boys  and  do  as  they  are  bid,  and  say  their  prayers  every  morning 
and  evening,  etc. ; and  yet  it  seems  curious  even  to  myself  that  I feel 
a great  deal  happier  in  the  practice  of  this  daily  routine  than  I did 
while  I was  roving  about  your  great  city  absorbed  in  the  modest 
project  of  rivalling  Shakspere  and  throwing  Scott  into  the  shade.” 

For  two  years  he  led  the  devoted  life  of  a good  religious,  of  a 
saint,  then  “ death  softly  touched  him  and  he  passed  away”  on  the 
12th  of  June,  1840.  Cheered  and  sanctified  by  religion,  the  lofty 
genius  and  pure,  bright  soul  of  Gerald  Griffin  passed  to  that  better, 
brighter  world  where  all  is  joy  and  happiness  supreme.  In  the 
little  cemetery  of  the  North  Monastery  in  Cork,  the  traveller  will 
see  a simple  headstone  marked,  “ Brother  Joseph.”  That  is  the 
honored  grave  of  Gerald  Griffin,  saint,  poet,  dramatist,  novelist, 
patriot — in  short,  one  of  the  very  best,  greatest,  and  most  gifted 
men  ever  produced  by  Ireland. 

The  poetry  of  Gerald  Griffin  glows  with  all  the  fire  and  feeling  of 
youth.  Dearly  we  love  it  for  its  pure  beauty,  freshness,  and  origin- 
ality. 

His  excellent  tragedy  of  “Gisippus” — written  in  his  twentieth 
year,  while  shouldering  his  way  through  the  rough-and-tumble  of 
London  life— was  performed  for  the  first  time  at  Drury  Lane  in 
1842.  Both  by  the  press  and  public  it  was  received  with  the  utmost 
favor. 

As  a writer,  Griffin  is  bold,  Irish,  faithful,  original.  In  the  field  of 
fiction  he  holds  the  first  rank — indeed,  it  is  our  opinion  that  he  is 


388  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

the  greatest  of  the  Irish  novelists.  “ The  Collegians ” is  his  most 
popular,  and  perhaps  his  most  powerful,  work.  His  works,  in  ten 
volumes,  are  published  by  D.  & J.  Sadlier  & Co.,  Hew  York, 

Gerald  Griffin  was  a wonderful  compound  of  the  purest  feeling 
and  the  most  splendid  intellect.  His  character  was  deep,  lofty, 
beautiful,  and  independent.  In  person  he  was  dignified  and  com- 
manding. His  brother,  who  visited  him  in  London  in  1826,  tells 
us  of  his  “ tall  figure,  expressive  features,  and  his  profusion  of 
dark  hair,  thrown  back  from  a fine  forehead,  giving  an  impression 
of  a person  remarkably  handsome  and  interesting.” 

“ How  long  we  live,  not  years  but  actions  tell  ; 

That  man  lives  twice  who  lives  the  first  life  well." 


SELECTIONS  FROM  GRIFFIN’S  WORKS. 

I LOVE  MY  LOVE  IN  THE  MORNING. 

I love  my  love  in  the  morning. 

For  she  like  morn  is  fair ; 

Her  blushing  cheek  its  crimson  streaky 
Its  clouds  her  golden  hair. 

Her  glance  its  beam,  so  soft  and  kind, 

Her  tears  its  dewy  showers, 

And  her  voice  the  tender,  whispering  wind 
That  stirs  the  early  bowers.. 

I love  my  love  in  the  morning,- 
I love  my  love  at  noon ; 

For  she  is  bright  as  the  lord  of  night* 

Yet  mild  as  autumn’s  moon. 

Her  beauty  is  my  bosom’s  sun, 

Her  faith  my  fostering  shade* 

And  I will  love  my  darling  one 
Till  even  the  sun  shall  fade. 

I love  my  love  in  the  morning, 

I love  my  love  at  even  ; 

Her  smile’s  soft  play  is  like  the  ray* 

That  lights  the  western  heaven. 


Gerald  Griffin. 


38  9 


I loved  her  when  the  sun  was  high, 
I loved  her  when  he  rose ; 

But  best  of  all  when  evening’s  sigh 
Was  murmuring  at  its  close. 


MY  SPIRIT  IS  GAY. 

My  spirit  is  gay  as  the  breaking  of  dawn, 

As  the  breeze  that  sports  over  the  sunlighted  lawn, 

As  the  song  of  yon  lark  from  his  kingdom  of  light, 

Or  the  harp-string  that  rings  in  the  chambers  at  night. 

For  the  world  and  its  vapors,  though  darkly  they  fold, 

I have  light  that  can  turn  them  to  purple  and  gold, 

Till  they  brighten  the  landscape  they  came  to  deface, 

And  deformity  changes  to  beauty  and  grace. 

Yet  say  not  to  selfish  delights  I must  turn, 

From  the  grief-laden  bosoms  around  me  that  mourn  ; 

For  ’tis  pleasure  to  share  in  each  sorrow  I see, 

And  sweet  sympathy’s  tear  is  enjoyment  to  me. 

Oh  ! blest  is  the  heart,  when  misfortunes  assail, 

That  is  armed  in  content  as  a garment  of  mail ; 

For  the  grief  of  another  that  treasures  its  zeal, 

And  remembers  no  woe  but  the  woe  it  can  heal. 

When  the  storm  gathers  dark  o’er  the  summer’s  young  bloom. 
And  each  ray  of  the  noontide  is  sheathed  in  gloom, 

I would  be  the  rainbow,  high  arching  in  air, 

Like  a gleaming  of  hope  on  the  brow  of  despair. 

When  the  burst  of  its  fury  is  spent  on  the  bower 

And  the  buds  are  yet  bow’d  with  the  weight  of  the  shower, 

I would  be  the  beam  that  comes  warming  and  bright, 

And  that  bids  them  burst  open  to  fragrance  and  light. 

I would  be  the  smile  that  comes  breaking  serene 
O’er  the  features  where  lately  affliction  has  been ; 

Or  the  heart-speaking  scroll  after  years  of  alloy 
That  brings  home  to  the  desolate  tidings  of  joy; 

Or  the  life-giving  rose-odor  borne  by  the  breeze 
To  the  sense  rising  keen  from  the  couch  of  disease. 


390 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


Or  the  whisper  of  charity,  tender  and  kind, 

Or  the  dawning  of  hope  on  the  penitent’s  mind. 

Then  breathe  ye,  sweet  roses,  your  fragrance  around. 
And  awaken,  ye  wild-birds,  the  grove  with  your  sound  ; 
When  the  soul  is  restrained  and  the  heart  is  at  ease 
There’s  a rapture  in  pleasures  so  simple  as  these. 

I rejoice  in  each  sunbeam  that  gladdens  the  vale, 

I rejoice  in  each  odor  that  sweetens  the  gale. 

In  the  bloom  of  the  spring,  in  the  summer’s  gay  voice. 
With  a spirit  as  gay  I rejoice  ! I rejoice  ! 


OLD  TIMES  ! OLD  TIMES  ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! the  gay  old  times  l 
When  I was  young  and  free, 

And  heard  the  merry  Easter  chimes. 

Under  the  sally  tree. 

My  Sunday  palm  beside  me  placed. 

My  cross  upon  my  hand, 

A heart  at  rest  within  my  breast,. 

And  sunshine  on  the  land  ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  l 

It  is  not  that  my  fortunes  flee, 

Nor  that  my  cheek  is  pale, 

I mourn  whenever  I think  of  thee,, 

My  darling  native  vale. 

A wiser  head  I have,  I know. 

Than  when  I loitered  there  ; 

But  in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe. 

And  in  my  knowledge  care. 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! 

I’ve  lived  to  know  my  share  of  joy. 

To  feel  my  share  of  pain, 

To  learn  that  friendship’s  self  can  cloy,. 

To  love,  and  love  in  vain/ 


Gerald  Griffin. 


39* 


To  feel  a pang  and  wear  a smile. 

To  tire  of  other  climes, 

To  like  my  own  unhappy  isle. 

And  sing  the  gay  old  times  ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! 

And  sure  the  land  is  nothing  changed. 

The  birds  are  singing  still, 

The  flowers  are  springing  where  we  ranged, 
There’s  sunshine  on  the  hill ; 

The  sally,  waving  o’er  my  head. 

Still  sweetly  shades  my  frame  ; 

But,  ah  ! those  happy  days  are  fled. 

And  I am  not  the  same  ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! 


Oh  ! come  again,  ye  merry  times. 
Sweet,  sunny,  fresh,  and  calm, 
And  let  me  hear  those  Easter  chimes. 
And  wear  my  Sunday  palm. 

If  I could  cry  away  mine  eyes 
My  tears  would  flow  in  vain ; 

If  I could  waste  my  heart  in  sighs, 
They’ll  never  come  again  ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! 


A PLACE  IM  THY  MEMORY,  DEAREST. 

A place  in  thy  memory,  dearest, 

Is  all  that  I claim, 

To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  hearest 
The  sound  of  my  name. 

Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer. 

Another  may  win  and  wear ; 

I care  not  though  he  be  dearer. 

If  I am  remembered  there. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland 

Remember  me — not  as  a lover 
Whose  hope  was  cross’d, 

Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 
The  light  it  hath  lost ; 

As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 
She  loves  though  she  never  may  see, 

As  a sister  remembers  a brother, 

0 dearest ! remember  me. 

Could  I be  thy  true  lover,  dearest, 

Couldst  thou  but  smile  on  me, 

I would  be  the  fondest  and  nearest 
That  ever  loved  thee  ! 

But  a cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming 
That  never  must  burst  upon  thine, 

And  Heaven,  that  made  thee  all  blooming, 
Ne’er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Remember  me,  then ; oh  ! remember 
My  calm,  light  love. 

Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 
My  life  may  prove ; 

That  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweet. 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 

A smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet. 
And  a place  in  thy  memory. 


YOU  HAVE  NEVER  BADE  ME  HOPE,  ?TIS  TRUE. 

You  have  never  bade  me  hope,  ’tis  true, 

I ask  you  not  to  swear  ; 

But  I looked  into  those  eyes  of  blue 
And  read  a promise  there. 

The  vow  should  bind  with  maiden  sighs 
That  maiden’s  lips  have  spoken ; 

But  that  which  looks  from  maiden’s  eyes 
Should  last  of  all  be  broken  ! 


Gerald  Griffin . 


393 


LIKE  THE  OAK  BY  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Like  the  oak  by  the  fountain 
In  sunshine  and  storm  ; 

Like  the  rock  on  the  mountain, 
Unchanging  in  form  ; 

Like  the  course  of  the  river. 
Through  ages  the  same  ; 

Like  the  mist  mounting  ever 
To  heaven,  whence  it  came. 

So  firm  be  thy  merit, 

So  changeless  thy  soul, 

So  constant  thy  spirit, 

While  seasons  shall  roll. 

The  fancy  that  ranges 
Ends  where  it  began  ; 

But  the  mind  that  ne’er  changes 
Brings  glory  to  man. 


FARE  THEE  WELL,  MY  NATIVE  DELL. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  native  dell ! 

Though  far  away  I wander. 

With  thee  my  thoughts  shall  ever  dwell, 

In  absence  only  fonder. 

Farewell,  ye  banks  where  once  I roved 
To  view  that  lonely  river, 

And  you,  ye  groves  so  long  beloved. 

And  fields,  farewell  for  ever  ! 

Here  once  my  youthful  moments  flew 
In  joy  like  sunshine  splendid, 

The  brightest  hours  that  e’er  I knew 
With  those  sweet  scenes  were  blended — 
When  o’er  those  hills  at  break  of  morn 
The  deer  went  bounding  early. 

And  huntsmen  woke  with  hounds  and  horn 
The  mountain  echoes  cheerly. 


394 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Fare  ye  well,  ye  happy  hours, 

So  bright,  but  long  departed  ! 

Fare  ye  well,  yet  fragrant  bow’rs. 

So  sweet,  but  now  deserted  ! 

Farewell,  each  rock  and  lonely  isle. 
That  make  the  poet’s  numbers  ; 

And  thou,  0 ancient,  holy  pile  ! 6 
Where  mighty  Brian  slumbers  ! 

Farewell,  thou  old,  romantic  bridge. 
Where  morn  has  seen  me  roaming, 

To  mark  across  each  shallow  ridge 
The  mighty  Shannon  foaming. 

No  more  I’ll  press  the  bending  oar 
To  speed  the  painted  wherry. 

And  glide  along  the  shady  wood 
To  view  the  hills  of  Derry. 

There’s  many  an  isle  in  Scariff  Bay, 
With  many  a garden  blooming. 

Where  oft  I’ve  passed  the  summer  day 
Till  twilight  hours  were  glooming. 

No  more  shall  evening’s  yellow  glow 
Among  those  ruins  find  me  ; 

Far  from  these  dear  scenes  I go. 

But  leave  my  heart  behind  me. 


’tis,  it  is  the  shannon’s  stream. 

’Tis,  it  is  the  Shannon’s  stream 

Brightly  glancing,  brightly  glancing. 
See,  oh  ! see  the  ruddy  beam 
Upon  its  waters  dancing  ! 

Thus  return  from  travel  vain. 

Years  of  exile,  years  of  pain. 

To  see  old  Shannon’s  face  again. 

Oh  ! the  bliss  entrancing. 


* The  cathedral  in  which  is  the  monument  of  the  celebrated  Brian  Boru. 


Gerald  Griffin. 


395 


Hail,  our  own  majestic  stream. 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever. 

Silent  in  the  morning  beam. 

Our  own  beloved  river  ! 

Fling  thy  rocky  portals  wide, 

Western  ocean,  western  ocean ; 

Bend,  ye  hills,  on  either  side. 

In  solemn,  deep  devotion  ; 

While  before  the  rising  gales 
On  his  heaving  surface  sails 
Half  the  wealth  of  Erin’s  vales. 

With  undulating  motion. 

Hail,  our  own  beloved  stream, 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever. 

Silent  in  the  morning  beam. 

Our  own  majestic  river  ! 

On  thy  bosom  deep  and  wide, 

Noble  river,  lordly  river. 

Royal  navies  safe  might  ride. 

Green  Erin’s  lovely  river  ! 

Proud  upon  thy  banks  to  dwell. 

Let  me  ring  ambition’s  knell, 

Lured  by  hope’s  illusive  spell. 

Again  to  wander,  never. 

Hail,  our  own  romantic  stream. 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever. 

Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  majestic  river  ! 

Let  me  from  thy  placid  course. 

Gentle  river,  mighty  river. 

Draw  such  truths  of  silent  force 
As  sophist  uttered  never. 

Thus  like  thee,  unchanging  still, 

With  tranquil  breast  and  ordered  will, 
My  heaven-appointed  course  fulfil, 
Undeviating  ever ! 


396 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Hail,  our  own  majestic  stream, 
Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 
Our  own  delightful  river  ! 


THE  SISTER  OF  CHARITY. 

She  onoe  was  a lady  of  honor  and  wealth, 

Bright  glowed  on  her  features  the  roses  of  health ; 
Her  vesture  was  blended  of  silk  and  of  gold, 

And  her  motion  shook  perfume  from  every  fold ; 

Joy  re  veil’d  around  her,  love  shone  at  her  side, 

And  gay  was  her  smile  as  the  glance  of  a bride. 

And  light  was  her  step  in  the  mirth-sounding  hall, 
When  she  heard  of  the  daughters  of  Vincent  de  Paul. 

She  felt  in  her  spirit  the  summons  of  grace, 

That  call’d  her  to  live  for  the  suffering  race, 

And,  heedless  of  pleasure,  of  comfort,  of  home, 

Rose  quickly,  like  Mary,  and  answered,  “ I come.” 
She  put  from  her  person  the  trappings  of  pride 
And  passed  from  her  home  with  the  joy  of  a bride, 
Nor  wept  at  the  threshold,  as  onward  she  moved. 

For  her  heart  was  on  fire  in  the  cause  it  approved. 

Lost  ever  to  fashion — to  vanity  lost, 

That  beauty  that  once  was  the  song  and  the  toast ; 
No  more  in  the  ball-room  that  figure  we  meet, 

But  gliding  at  dusk  to  the  wretch’s  retreat. 

Forgot  in  the  halls  is  that  high-sounding  name, 

For  the  Sister  of  Charity  blushes  at  fame ; 

Forgot  are  the  claims  of  her  riches  and  birth, 

For  she  barters  for  heaven  the  glory  of  earth. 

Those  feet  that  to  music  could  gracefully  move 
Now  bear  her  alone  on  the  mission  of  love  ; 

Those  hands  that  once  dangled  the  perfume  and  gem 
Are  tending  the  helpless,  or  lifting  for  them ; 

That  voice  that  once  echo’d  the  songs  of  the  vain 
Now  whispers  relief  to  the  bosom  of  pain  ; 


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BOSTON, 

carry  a full  line  of  foot-wear  at  lowest  prices,  and  offer  re- 
markable bargains  in 

Rubbers  of  Every  Description. 


Gerald  Griffin. 


397 


And  the  hair  that  was  shining  with  diamond  and  pearl 
Is  wet  with  the  tears  of  the  penitent  girl. 


Her  down  bed  a pallet,  her  trinkets  a bead. 

Her  lustre,  one  taper  that  serves  her  to  read, 

Her  sculpture,  the  crucifix  nailed  by  her  bed, 

Her  paintings,  one  print  of  the  thorn-crowned  head. 
Her  cushion,  the  pavement  that  wearies  her  knees, 
Her  music  the  psalm,  or  the  sigh  of  disease ; 

The  delicate  lady  lived  mortified  there, 

And  the  feast  is  forsaken  for  fasting  and  prayer. 

Yet  not  to  the  service  of  heart  and  of  mind 
Are  the  cares  of  that  heaven-minded  virgin  confined  ; 
Like  Him  whom  she  loves,  to  the  mansions  of  grief 
She  hastes  with  the  tidings  of  joy  and  relief. 

She  strengthens  the  weary,  she  comforts  the  weak. 
And  soft  is  her  voice  in  the  ear  of  the  sick ; 

Where  want  and  affliction  on  mortals  attend, 

The  Sister  of  Charity  there  is  a friend. 

Unshrinking  where  pestilence  scatters  his  breath, 
Like  an  angel  she  moves  ’mid  the  vapor  of  death ; 
Where  rings  the  loud  musket  and  flashes  the  sword, 
Unfearing  she  walks,  for  she  follows  the  Lord. 

How  sweetly  she  bends  o’er  each  plague-tainted  face 
With  looks  that  are  lighted  with  holiest  grace  ! 

How  kindly  she  dresses  each  suffering  limb, 

For  she  sees  in  the  wounded  the  image  of  Him  ! 

Behold  her,  ye  worldly  ! behold  her,  ye  vain  ! 

Who  shrink  from  the  pathway  of  virtue  and  pain ; 
Who  yield  up  to  pleasure  your  nights  and  your  days. 
Forgetful  of  service,  forgetful  of  praise. 

Ye  lazy  philosophers — self-seeking  men — 

Ye  fireside  philanthropists,  great  at  the  pen, 

How  stands  in  the  balance  your  eloquence  weighed, 
With  the  life  and  the  deeds  of  that  high-born  maid  ? 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


39S 


TO  THE  BLESSED  VTRGIH  MARY. 

As  the  mute  nightingale  in  closest  groves 

Lies  hid  at  noon,  but  when  day’s  piercing  eye 
Is  lock’d  in  night,  with  full  heart  beating  high, 
Poureth  her  plain  song  o’er  the  light  she  loves, 

So,  Virgin,  ever  pure  and  ever  blest, 

Moon  of  religion,  from  whose  radiant  face, 

Reflected,  streams  the  light  of  heavenly  grace 
On  broken  hearts,  by  contrite  thoughts  oppress’d — 

So,  Mary,  they  who  justly  feel  the  weight 
Of  Heaven’s  offended  majesty  implore 
Thy  reconciling  aid,  with  suppliant  knee. 

Of  sinful  man,  0 sinless  Advocate  ! 

To  thee  they  turn,  nor  him  the  less  adore; 

’Tis  still  Ms  light  they  love,  less  dreadful  seen  in  thee. 


THE  CHOICE  OF  FRIENDS. 

League  not  with  him  in  friendship’s  tie 
Whose  selfish  soul  is  bent  on  pleasure  ; 
For  he  from  joy  to  joy  will  fly 

As  changes  fancy’s  fickle  measure. 

Not  his  the  faith  whose  bond  we  see 
With  lapse  of  years  remaining  stronger ; 
Nor  will  he  then  be  true  to  thee 

When  thou  canst  servo  his  aim  no  longer. 


Him,  too,  avoid  whose  grov’lling  love 
In  earthly  end  alone  is  centred, 

Within  whose  heart  a thought  above 
Life’s  common  cares  has  seldom  entered. 
Trust  not  to  him  thy  bosom’s  weal, 

A painted  love  alone  revealing, 

The  show,  without  the  lasting  zeal, 

The  hollow  voice,  without  the  feeling. 


Gerald  Griffin. 


399 


THE  VILLAGE  EUIH. 

The  lake  which  washes  the  orchards  of  the  village  of divides 

it  from  an  abbey  now  in  ruins,  but  associated  with  the  recollection 
of  one  of  those  few  glorious  events  which  shed  a scanty  and  occa- 
sional lustre  on  the  dark  and  mournful  tide  of  Irish  history.  At 
this  foundation  was  educated,  a century  or  two  before  the  English 
conquest,  Melcha,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  O’Melachlin,  a prince 
whose  character  and  conduct  even  yet  afford  room  for  speculation 
to  the  historians  of  his  country.  Not  like  the  maids  of  our  degene- 
rate days,  who  are  scarce  exceeded  by  the  men  in  their  effeminate 
vanity  and  love  of  ornament,  young  Melcha  joined  to  the  tenderness 
and  beauty  of  a virgin  the  austerity  and  piety  of  a hermit.  The 
simplest  roots  that  fed  the  lowest  of  her  father’s  subjects  were  the 
accustomed  food  of  Melcha  ; a couch  of  heath  refreshed  her  deli- 
cate limbs,  and  the  lark  did  not  rise  earlier  at  morn  to  sing  the 
praises  of  his  Maker  than  did  the  daughter  of  O’Melachlin. 

One  subject  had  a large  proportion  of  her  thoughts,  her  tears,  and 
prayers — the  misery  of  her  afflicted  country  ; for  she  had  not  fallen 
on  happy  days  for  Ireland.  Some  years  before  her  birth  a swarm 
of  savages  from  the  North  of  Europe  had  landed  on  the  eastern 
coast  of  the  island,  and,  in  despite  of  the  gallant  resistance  of  her 
father  (who  then  possessed  the  crown)  and  of  the  other  chiefs,  suc- 
ceeded in  establishing  their  power  throughout  the  country.  Thor- 
gills,  the  barbarian  chief  who  had  led  them  on,  assumed  the  sove- 
reignty of  the  conquered  isle,  leaving,  however,  to  O’Melachlin  the 
name  and  insignia  of  royalty,  while  all  the  power  of  government 
was  centred  in  himself.  The  history  of  tyranny  scarcely  furnishes 
a more  appalling  picture  of  devastation  and  oppressive  cruelty  than 
that  which  followed  the  success  of  this  invasion.  Monasteries  were 
destroyed,  monks  slaughtered  in  the  shelter  of  their  cloisters,  cities 
laid  waste  and  burnt,  learning  almost  exterminated,  and  religion 
persecuted  with  a virulence  peculiar  to  the  gloomy  and  superstitious 
character  of  the  oppressors.  Historians  present  a minute  and  affect- 
ing detail  of  the  enormities  which  were  perpetrated  in  the  shape  of 
taxation,  restriction,  and  direct  aggression.  The  single  word 
tyranny , however,  may  convey  an  idea  of  the  whole. 

Astonished  at  these  terrible  events,  O’Melachlin,  though  once  a 
vigilant  general,  seemed  struck  with  some  base  palsy  of  the  soul 
that  rendered  him  insensible  to  the  groans  and  tortures  of  his  sub- 


400 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


jects,  or  to  the  barbarous  cruelty  of  the  monster  who  was  nominally 
leagued  with  him  in  power.  Apparently  content  with  the  shadow 
of  dominion  left  him,  and  with  the  security  afforded  to  those  of  his 
own  household,  he  slept  upon  his  duties  as  a king  and  as  a man, 
and  thirty  years  of  misery  rolled  by  without  his  striking  a blow,  or 
even,  to  all  appearance,  forming  a wish  for  the  deliverance  of  his 
afflicted  country.  It  was  not  till  he  was  menaced  with  the  danger 
of  sharing  the  afflictions  of  his  people  that  he  endeavored  to  re- 
move it. 

Such  apathy  it  was  which  pressed  upon  the  mind  of  Melcha,  and 
filled  her  heart  with  shame  and  with  affliction.  A weak  and  help- 
less maid,  she  had,  however,  nothing  but  her  prayers  to  bestow  upon 
her  country ; nor  were  those  bestowed  in  vain.  At  the  age  of  fifteen, 
rich  in  virtue  as  in  beauty  and  in  talent,  she  was  recalled  from  those 
cloisters  whose  shadows  still  are  seen  at  even-fall  reflected  in  the  wa- 
ters of  the  lake,  to  grace  the  phantom  court  of  her  degenerated  father. 
The  latter,  proud  of  his  child,  gave  a splendid  feast  in  honor  of  her 
return,  to  which  he  was  not  ashamed  to  invite  the  oppressor  of  his 
subjects  and  the  usurper  of  his  own  authority.  The  coarser  vices 
are  the  usual  concomitants  of  cruelty.  Thorgills  beheld  the  saintly 
daughter  of  his  host  with  other  eyes  than  those  of  admiration.  Ac- 
customed to  mould  the  wishes  of'  the  puppet-monarch  to  his  own, 
he  tarried  not  even  the  conclusion  of  the  feast,  but,  desiring  the 
company  of  O’Melachlin  on  the  green  without  the  palace,  he  there 
disclosed  to  him,  with  the  bluntness  of  a barbarian  and  the  insolence 
of  a conqueror,  his  infamous  wishes. 

Struck  to  the  soul  at  what  he  heard,  O’Melachlin  was  deprived 
of  the  power  of  reply  or  utterance.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had 
resigned  to  the  invader  the  power  which  had  fallen  so  heavy  on  the 
land,  his  feelings  were  awakened  to  a sense  of  sympathy,  and  self-in- 
terest made  him  pitiful.  The  cries  of  bereaved  parents,  to  which 
till  now  his  heart  had  been  impenetrable  as  a wall  of  brass,  found 
sudden  entrance  to  its  inmost  folds,  and  a responsive  echo  amid  its 
tenderest  strings.  He  sat  for  a time  upon  a bench  close  by,  with 
his  forehead  resting  on  his  hand,  and  a torrent  of  tempestuous  feel- 
ings rushing  through  his  bosom. 

“ What  sayest  thou?”  asked  the  tyrant,  after  a long  silence. 
“ Shall  I have  my  wish?  No  answer!  Hearest  thou,  slave? 
What  insolence  keeps  thee  silent  ? ” 

“ I pray  you  pardon  me,”  replied  the  monarch  ; “I  was  thinking 


Gerald  Griffin. 


401 


then  of  a sore  annoyance  that  has  lately  bred  about  our  castle.  I 
mean  .that  rookery  yonder,  the  din  of  which  even  now  confounds 
the  music  of  our  feast,  and  invades  with  its  untimely  harshness  our 
cheering  and  most  singular  discourse.  I would  I had  some  mode  of 
banishing  that  pest.  I would  I had  some  mode — I would  I had.” 

“ Ho  ! was  that  all  the  subject  of  thy  thought  ? ” said  Thorgills. 
“ Why,  fool,  thou  never  wilt  be  rid  of  them  till  thou  hast  burned 
the  nests  wherein  they  breed.” 

“I  thank  thee,”  answered  the  insulted  parent;  “Fll  take  thy 
counsel.  I’ll  burn  the  nests.  Will  you  walk  into  the  house  ?” 

“ What,  first,  of  my  request  ?”  said  Thorgills;  “tell  me  that.” 

“ If  thou  hadst  asked  me,”  replied  the  king,  “ a favorite  hobby 
for  the  chase,  or  a hound  to  guard  thy  threshold,  thou  wouldst  not 
think  it  much  to  grant  a week  at  least  for  preparing  my  heart  to 
part  with  what  it  loved.  How  much  more  when  thy  demand 
reaches  to  the  child  of  my  heart,  the  only  offspring  of  a mother  who 
died  before  she  had  beheld  her  offspring  ? ” 

“A  week,  then,  let  it  be,”  said  Thorgills,  looking  with  contempt 
upon  the  starting  tears  of  the  applicant. 

“ A week  would  scarce  suffice,”  replied  the  monarch,  “ to  teach 
my  tongue  in  what  language  it  should  communicate  a destiny  like 
this  to  Melcha.” 

“What  time  wouldst  thou  require,  then?”  cried  the  tyrant 
hastily. 

“ Thou  seest,”  replied  the  king,  pointing  to  the  new  moon,  which 
showed  its  slender  crescent  above  the  wood-crowned  hills  that 
bounded  in  the  prospect.  “ Before  that  thread  of  light  that 
glimmers  now  upon  the  distant  lake,  like  chastity  on  beauty,  has 
fulfilled  its  changes  thou  shalt  receive  my  answer  to  this  proffer.” 
“Be  it  so,”  said  Thorgills,  and  the  conversation  ended. 

Wlien  the  guests  had  all  departed,  the  wretched  monarch  went  into 
his  oratory,  where  he  bade  one  of  his  followers  to  order  Melcha  to 
attend  him.  She  found  him  utterly  depressed,  and  almost  incapa- 
ble of  forming  a design.  Having  commanded  the  attendants  to 
withdraw,  he  endeavored,  but-  in  vain,  to  make  known  to  the 
astonished  princess  the  demand  of  the  usurper.  He  remembered 
her  departed  mother,  and  he  thought  of  her  own  sanctity,  and, 
more  than  all,  he  remembered  his  helpless  condition,  and  the  seem- 
ing impossibility  of  doing  anything  within  the  time  to  remove  from 
his  own  doors  the  misery  which  had  already  befallen  so  many  of  his 


402  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

subjects  without  meeting  any  active  sympathy  from  him.  Was  this 
the  form  which  he  was  to  resign  into  a ruffian’s  hands  ? Was  it  for 
such  an  end  he  had  instilled  into  her  delicate  mind  the  principles 
of  early  virtue  and  Christian  piety  ? By  degrees,  as  he  contem- 
plated his  situation,  his  mind  was  roused  by  the  very  nature  of  the 
exigency  to  devise  the  means  of  its  removal.  He  communicated 
both  to  Melcha,  and  was  not  disappointed  in  her  firmness.  With  a 
zeal  beyond  her  sex,  she  prepared  to  take  a part  in  the  desperate 
counsels  of  her  father  and  the  still  more  desperate  means  by  which 
he  proposed  to  put  them  into  execution.  Assembling  the  officers 
■of  his  court,  he  made  known  to  all,  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter, 
the  flagrant  insult  which  had  been  offered  to  their  sovereign,  and 
obtained  the  ready  pledge  of  all  to  peril  their  existence  in  the 
futherance  of  his  wishes.  He  unfolded  in  their  sight  the  green 
banner  of  their  country,  which  had  now  for  more  than  thirty  years 
lain  hid  amongst  the  wrecks  of  their  departed  freedom,  and,  while 
the  memory  of  former  glories  shone  warmly  on  their  minds  through 
the  gloom  of  recent  shame  and  recent  injuries,  the  monarch  easily 
directed  their  enthusiasm  to  the  point  where  he  would  have  it  fall — 
the  tyranny  of  Thorgills  and  his  countrymen. 

On  the  following  day  the  latter  departed  for  the  capital,  where  he 
was  to  await  the  determination  of  his  colleague.  Accustomed  to  hold 
in  contempt  the  imbecility  of  the  conquered  king,  and  hard  himself 
at  heart,  he  knew  not  what  prodigious  actions  may  take  their  rise 
from  the  impulse  of  paternal  love.  That  rapid  month  was  fruitful 
in  exertion.  Couriers  were  despatched  from  the  palace  of  O’Melach- 
lin  to  many  of  those  princes  whose  suggestions  of  the  deliverance  of 
the  isle  he  had  long  since  received  with  apathy  or  disregard. 
Plans  were  arranged,  troops  organized,  and  a general  system  of  in- 
telligence established  throughout  the  island.  It  is  easy  to  unite  the 
oppressed  against  the  sovereign,  so  suddenly  his  scheme  was  spread 
throughout  the  country.  The  moon  rolled  by,  and  by  its  latest 
glimmer  a messenger  was  despatched  to  the  capital  to  meet  at  what- 
ever place  he  should  appoint. 

There  was  an  island  on  the  lake  in  Meath,  in  which  Thorgills  had 
erected  a lordlv  palace,  surrounded  by  the  richest  woods,  and  af- 
fording a delicious  prospect  of  the  lake  and  the  surrounding 
country.  Hither  the  luxurious  monarch  directed  that  the  daughter 
of  O’Melachlin  should  be  sent,  together  with  her  train  of  fifteen 
noble  maidens  of  the  court  of  -O’Melachlin.  The  address  of  the 


Gerald  Griffin . 


403 


latter  in  seeming  to  accede  to  tlie  wishes  of  the  tyrant  is  preserved 
amongst  the  annals  of  the  isle.  It  requested  him  to  consider 
whether  he  might  not  find  elsewhere  some  object  more  deserving  of 
his  favor  than  44  that  brown  girl,”  and  besought  him  to  remember 
4 4 whose  father’s  child  she  was.” 

Far  from  being  touched  by  this  appeal,  the  usurper,  on  the  ap- 
pointed day,  selected  in  the  capital  fifteen  of  the  most  dissolute  and 
brutal  of  his  followers,  with  whom  he  arrived  at  evening  at  the 
rendezvous.  It  was  a portentous  night  for  Ireland.  Even  to  the 
eyes  of  the  tyrant  and  his  gang,  half  blinded  as  they  were  to  all 
but  their  own  hideous  thoughts,  there  appeared  something  gloomy 
and  foreboding  in  the  stillness  of  nature,  and  seemed  even  to  per- 
vade the  manners  of  the  people.  The  villages  were  silent  as  they 
passed,  and  there  appeared  in  the  greeting  of  the  few  they  met 
upon  the  route  an  air  of  deep-seated  and  almost  menacing  intelli- 
gence. 

Meantime,  with  feelings  widely  different  and  an  anxiety  that  even 
the  greatness  of  the  enterprise  and  the  awakened  spirit  of  heroism 
could  not  wholly  subdue,  O’Melachlin  prepared  himself  for  the 
painful  task  of  bidding  farewell  to  his  beloved  daughter.  Melcha, 
already  aware  of  his  design,  awaited  with  the  deepest  anxiety,  yet 
mingled  with  a thrilling  hope,  the  approach  of  the  auspicious  mo- 
ment that  was  to  crown  her  ardent  and  long-cherished  wishes  or  to 
dash  them  to  the  earth  forever.  Alone  in  her  royal  father’s 
oratory,  she  lay  prostrate  before  the  marble  altar,  and  wet  with 
floods  of  tears  the  solid  pavement  at  its  base.  She  prayed,  not 
like  a fanatic  or  worldling,  but  like  one  who  understood  with  a 
feeling  mind  the  real  miseries  of  her  country,  and  knew  that  she 
addressed  a power  capable  of  removing  them.  The  step  of  her  father 
at  the  porch  of  the  oratory  aroused  the  princess  from  her  attitude 
of  devotion.  She  stood  up  hastily  upon  her  feet,  like  one  prepared 
for  enterprise,  and  waited  the  speech  of  O’Melachlin.  He  came  to 
inform  her  that  all  was  ready  for  her  departure,  and  conducted  her 
into  an  adjoining  chamber,  that  he  might  bid  her  farewell.  The 
father  and  daughter  embraced  in  silence  and  with  tears. 

Believing  from  the  error  of  the  light  that  she  looked  pale  as  she 
stood  before  him,  he  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  in  an  encourag- 
ing manner. 

44  Follow  me,”  he  said,  44  my  child,  and  thou  shalt  see  how  little 
cause  thou  hast  to  fear  the  power  of  this  Norwegian  Holof ernes.” 


404 


The  Prose  a?id  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


The  king  conducted  her  into  another  room,  where  stood  fifteen 
young  maidens,  as  it  seemed,  and  richly  attired. 

“Thou  seest  these  virgins,  Melcha,”  said  the  monarch.  “Their 
years  are  like  thine  own,  but  under  every  eloak  is  a warrior’s  sword, 
and  they  do  not  want  a warrior’s  hand  to  wiel^L  it,  for  all  that  is 
woman  of  them  is  their  dress.  Dost  thou  think,”  he  added  ten- 
derly, “that  thou  hast  firmness  for  such  a task  as  this  ?” 

“I  have  no  fear,”  replied  his  daughter.  “He  who  put  strength 
into  the  arm  of  Judith  can  give  courage  to  the  heart  of  Melcha.” 

They  departed  from  the  palace,  where  the  anxious  father  re- 
mained a little  longer,  until  the  fast  advancing  shades  of  night 
should  enable  him  to  put  the  first  steps  of  his  design  into  effect.  As 
soon  as  the  earliest  stars  began  to  glimmer  on  the  woods  of  Meath, 
he  took  from  its  recess  the  banner  which  so  long  had  rested  idle  and 
inglorious  in  his  hall,  and  the  brazen  sword  which  was  once  the 
constant  companion  of  his  early  successes  and  defeats,  but  which 
now  had  not  left  its  sheath  since  he  received  a visionary  crown  from 
Thorgills.  Girding  the  weapon  to  his  side,  he  drew  the  blade  with 
tears  of  shame  and  sorrow,  imprinted  a kiss  upon  the  tempered 
metal,  and  hastened  with  reviving  hope  and  energy  to  seek  the 
troops  who  awaited  him  in  the  adjoining  wood.  Mounting  in 
haste,  they  hurried  along  through  forests  and  defiles  which  were  in 
many  places  thronged  with  silent  multitudes,  armed,  and  waiting 
but  the  signal-word  to  rush  to  action.  They  halted  near  the  bor- 
ders of  the  lake  of  Thorgills,  where  a number  of  currachs,  or 
basket-boats,  were  moored  under  shelter  of  the  wood.  After  hold- 
ing a council  of  war,  and  allotting  to  the  several  princes  engaged 
their  part  in  the  approaching  enterprise,  O’Melachlin  remained  on 
the  shore  casting  from  time  t>  time  an  anxious  eye  to  the  usurper’s 
isle,  and  awaiting  the  expected  signal  of  his  daughter. 

The  princess  in  the  meantime  pursued  the  hazardous  journey  to 
the  abode  of  Thorgills.  The  sun  had  already  set  before  they  reached 
the  shores  of  the  lake  which  surrounded  the  castle  of  the  tyrant,  and 
the  silver  bow  of  the  expiring  moon  was  glimmering  in  its  pure  and 
tranquil  waters.  A barge,  allotted  by  Thorgills  for  the  purpose,  was 
sent  to  convey  them  to  the  island,  and  they  were  welcomed  with  soft 
music  at  the  entrance  of  the  palace.  The  place  was  lonely,  the 
guards  were  few,  and  the  blind  security  of  the  monarch  was  only 
equalled  by  his  weakness.  Besides,  the  revel  spirit  had  descended 
from  the  chieftain  to  his  train,,  and  most  even  of  those  who  were 


Gerald  Griffin . 


405 


in  arms  had  incapacitated  the  in  selves  for  using  them  with  any 
energy.  Melcha  and  her  train  were  conducted  by  a half-intoxicated 
slave  to  an  extensive  hall,  where  they  were  commanded  to  await  the 
orders  of  the  conqueror.  The  guide  disappeared,  and  the  princess 
prepared  for  the  issue.  I11  a little  time  the  hangings  at  one  side  of 
the  apartment  were  drawn  back,  and  the  usurper,  accompanied  by 
his  ruffian  band,  made  his  appearance,  hot  with  the  fumes  of  in- 
toxication, and  staggering  from  the  late  debauch.  The  entrance  of 
Thorgills  was  the  signal  for  Melclia  to  prepare  her  part.  All  re- 
mained still  while  Thorgills  passed  from  one  to  another  of  the  silent 
band  of  maidens,  and  paused  at  length  before  the  “brown  girl”  for 
whom  O’Melachlin  had  besought  his  pity.  A thrill  of  terror  shot 
through  the  heart  of  Melcha  as  she  beheld  the  hand  of  the  wretch 
about  to  grasp  her  arm. 

“Down  with  the  tyrant !”  she  exclaimed,  in  a voice  that  rung 
like  a bugle-call.  “Upon  him,  warriors,'  in  the  name  of  Erin  ! 
Bind  him,  but  slay  him  not.” 

"With  a wild  “ Earrali  ! ” that  shook  the  roof  and  walls  of  the 
abhorred  dwelling,  the  youths  obeyed  the  summons  of  the  heroine. 
The  tornado  bursts  not  sooner  from  the  bosom  of  Eastern  calm 
than  did  the  band  of  warriors  from  their  delicate  disguise  at  the 
sound  of  those  beloved  accents. 

Their  swords  for  an  instant  gleamed  unstained  on  high,  but  when 
they  next  rose  into  the  air  they  smoked  with  the  streaming  gore  of 
the  oppressors.  Struck  powerless  by  the  charge,  the  tyrant  and  his 
dissolute  crew  were  disabled  before  they  had  even  time  to  draw  a 
sword. 

Thorgills  was  seized  alive  and  bound  with  their  scarfs  and  bands, 
while  the  rest  were  hewed  to  pieces  without  pity  on  the  spot.  While 
this  was  done,  the  heroic  Melcha  seized  a torch  which  burned  in  the 
apartment,  rushed  swiftly  from  the  palace.  The  affrighted  guards, 
believing  it  to  be  some  apparition,  gave  way  as  she  approached,  and 
suffered  her  to  reach  the  borders  of  the  lake,  where  she  waved  the 
brand  on  high,  forgetting  in  the  zeal  of  liberty  her  feminine  cha- 
racter, and  more  resembling  one  of  their  own  war  goddesses  than 
the  peaceful  Christian  maiden  whose  prayers  and  tears  till  now  had 
been  her  only  weapons.  Like  a train  to  which  a spark  has  been 
applied,  a chain  of  beacon-fires  sprang  up  from  hill  to  hill  of  the 
surrounding  country,  amid  the  shouts  nf  thousands  gasping  for 
breath — for  the  breath  of  freedom,  and  hailing  that  feeble  light  as 


a 06  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

its  rising  star.  The  boats  of  O’Melachlin,  shooting  like  arrows  from 
the  surrounding  shores,  darkened  the  surface  of  the  lake,  and  the 
foremost  reached  the  isle  before  the  guards  of  the  tyrant,  stupified 
by  wine  and  fear,  had  yet  recovered  courage  to  resist.  They  were  an 
easy  prey  to  O’Melachlin  and  his  followers;  nor  was  the  enterprise 
thus  auspiciously  commenced  permitted  to  grow  cold  until  the 
power  of  the  invaders  was  destroyed  throughout  the  isle,  and  Melcha 
had  the  happiness  to  see  peace  and  liberty  restored  to  her  afflicted 
country. 

In  the  waters  of  that  lake  which  so  often  had  borne  the  usurper 
to  the  lonely  scene  of  his  debaucheries  he  was  consigned,  amidst 
the  acclamations  of  a liberated  people,  to  a nameless  sepulchre,  and 
the  power  he  had  abused  once  more  reverted  to  its  rightful  owner. 

In  one  thing  only  did  the  too  confiding  islanders  neglect  to  profit 
by  the  advice  of  Thorgills  himself.  They  did  not  burn  the  nests. 
They  suffered  the  strangers  still  to  possess  the  seaport  towns  and 
other  important  holds  throughout  the  isle,  an  imprudence,  how- 
ever, the  effect  of  which  did  not  appear  till  the  reign  of  O’Melachlin 
was  ended  by  his  death. 

The  reader  may  desire  to  know  what  became  of  the  beautiful  and 
heroic  princess  who  had  so  considerable  a share  in  the  restoration  of 
her  country’s  freedom.  As  this  had  been  the  only  earthly  object  of 
her  wishes,  even  from  childhood,  with  its  accomplishment  was  end- 
ed all  she  desired  on  earth.  Rejecting  the  crowds  of  noble  and 
wealthy  suitors  who  ardently  sought  her  hand,  and  preferring  the 
solitude  of  her  own  heart  to  the  splendors  and  allurements  of  a 
court,  she  besought  her  father,  as  a recompense  for  her  ready 
compliance  with  his  wishes,  that  he  would  allow  her  once  more  to 
retire  into  the  convent  where  she  had  received  her  education,  to  con- 
sume her  days  in  exercises  of  piety  and  virtue.  Pained  at  her  choice, 
the  king,  however,  did  not  seek  to  thwart  it ; and  after  playing 
her  brief  but  brilliant  part  upon  the  theatre  of  the  world,  she  de- 
voted in  those  holy  shades  her  yirgin  love  and  the  residue  of  her 
days  to  heaven. 

Such  are  the  recollections  that  hallow  the  village  ruin  and  dig- 
nify its  vicinity  with  the  majesty  of  historical  association.  The 
peasantry  choose  the  grave  of  the  royal  nun  as  the  scene  of  their 
devotions ; and  even  those  who  look  with  contempt  upon  their 
humble  piety,  and  regard  as  superstition  the  religion  of  their  buried 
princess,  feel  the  genial  current  gush  within  their  bosoms  as  they 


Gerald  Griffin. 


407 


pass  the  spot  at  evening,  and  think  upon  her  singleness  of  heart  and 
her  devoted  zeal.  Long  may  it  be  before  feelings  such  as  these  shall 
be  extinguished. 


GRIFFIN’S  LETTERS. 

LETTER  TO  HIS  SISTER. 

London,  Nov.  22,  1823. 

My  Dearest  Ellen  : I have  but  a small  place 7 left  for  you,  so 
I must  confine  myself.  William  does  not  mention  whether  you 
wrote  to  or  heard  from  America  since  I left  Ireland.  When  you 
write,  tell  Mary  Ann  8 that  while  her  affectionate  remembrance  of 
me  in  her  last  letter  gave  me  pleasure,  I felt  no  small  degree  of  pain 
at  the  air  of  doubt  with  which  she  requested  that  “ the  muses  should 
not  supersede  her  in  my  affections.”  I was  hurt  by  it  at  the  time, 
and  have  not  since  forgot  it.  Tell  her  that,  long  as  we  have  been 
acquainted,  she  yet  knows  little  of  me  if  she  thought  the  charge 
necessary. 

Since  I came  here  I have  discovered  that  home  is  more  necessary 
to  my  content  than  I previously  imagined.  The  novelty  of  change 
is  beginning  to  wear  off,  and  even  amid  the  bustle  of  this  great  city 
I think  of  you  already  with  a feeling  of  loneliness,  which  rather  in- 
creases than  lessens  by  time.  I do  not  expect  you  to  write  to  me, 
as  I know  it  distresses  you;  but  you  can  remember  me  now  and  then, 
and  make  William,  or  whoever  writes,  be  particular  in  the  account 
of  your  health.  Never  give  up  hope.  It  is  the  sweetest  cordial  with 
which  Heaven  qualifies  the  cup  of  calamity,  next  to  that  which  you 
never  lose  sight  of — religion. 

Dearest  Ellen,  remember  me  affectionately  to  all,  and  believe  me, 

Yours  ever, 

Gerald  Griffin, 


to  his  brother. 

London,  June  18,  1825. 

My  Dear  William:  I do  not  intend  to  send  this  until  I have 
more  to  tell  you  than  I can  do  at  present.  Your  letter  was  a great 
prize.  I wish  you  could  send  me  what  you  intend.  I know  not 

7 This  follows,  on  the  same  sheet,  a letter  to  his  brother,  Dr.  William  Griffin. 

8 Another  of  his  sisters  ; she  afterwards  became  a Sister  of  Charity. 


40S  The  Prose' and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

how  to  turn  it  to  account  until  I see  it  all ; but  I apprehend  the 
idea  of  a journal  is  not  good,  for  mine  must  be  all  tales,  short  and 
attractive  in  their  appearance. 

I called  the  other  day  on  a celebrated  American  scribbler,  Mr. 

N . He  is  a pleasant  fellow,  and  we  had  some  chat.  He  has  been 

filling  half  Blackivood  since  he  came  with  American  topics,  and  is 
about  novelizing  here,  as  1 perceive  by  the  advertisement  of  “ Brother 
Jonathan.”  His  cool  egotism  is  amusing.  “Tragedy,  Mr.  Griffin,” 
says  he  to  me,  “is  your  passion,  I presume  ? I wrote  one  myself 
the  other  day,  and  sent  it  in  to  the  players ; they  returned  it  with- 
out any  answer,  which  was  wise  on  their  part.  I was  sorry  for  it, 
however,  for  I thought  it  was  such  a thing  as  would  do  them  a good 
deal  of  credit,  and  me  tool  He  is,  I believe,  a lawyer.  You  under- 
stand my  reason  for  mentioning  this  precisely  in  that  place.  He  is, 
I think,  clever. 

Have  you  seen  Banim’s  “ O’Hara  Tales  ” ? If  not,  read  them, 
and  say  what  you  think  of  them.  I think  them  most  vigorous  and 
original  things,  overflowing  with  the  spirit  of  poetry,  passion,  and 

painting.  If  you  think  otherwise,  don’t  say  so.  My  friend  W 

sends  me  word  that  they  are  well  written.  All  our  critics  here  say 
they  are  admirably  written ; that  nothing  since  Scott's  first  novels 

has  equalled  them.  I differ  entirely  with  W in  his  idea  of  the 

fidelity  of  their  delineations.  He  says  they  argue  unacquintance 
with  the  country.  I think  they  are  astonishing  in  nothing  so  much 
as  in  the  power  of  creating  an  intense  interest  without  stepping  out 
of  real  life,  and  in  the  very  easy  and  natural  drama  that  is  carried 
through  them,  as  well  as  in  the  excellent  tact  he  shows  in  seizing 
on  ail  the  points  of  national  character  which  are  capable  of  effect. 
Mind,  I don’t  speak  of  “The  Fetches”  now.  That  is  romance. 
But  is  it  not  a splendid  one  ? 

Nobody  knew  anything  of  Banim  till  he  published  his  “O’Hara 
Tales,”  which  are  becoming  more  and  more  popular  every  day.  I 
have  seen  pictures  taken  from  them  already  by  first-rate  artists,  and 
engravings  in  the  windows.  Tales,  in  fact,  are  the  only  things  the 
public  look  for.  Miss  Kelly  has  been  trying  to  pull  Congreve  above 
water,  and  has  been  holding  him  by  the  nose  for  the  last  month, 
but  it  won’t  do  ; he  must  down.  When  I came  to  London  the 
playgoers  were  spectacle  mad,  then  horse  mad,  then  devil  mad,  now 
they  are  monkey  mad,  and  the  Lord  knows,  my  dear  William,  when 
they  will  be  G.  G.  mad.  I wish  I could  get  “ a vacancy  at  ’em,” 


Gerald  Griffin. 


409 


I’m  sure.  Every  day  shows  me  more  and  more  of  the  humbug  of 
literature.  It  is  laughable  and  sickening.  What  curious  ideas  I 
had  of  fame,  etc.,  before  I left  Ireland  ! . . . 

Dear  William,  affectionately  yours, 

Gerald  Griffin. 


TO  HIS  SISTER. 

Dublin,  April  13,  1829. 

My  Dear  Lucy  : I am  most  ready  to  admit  your  last  letter  as  an 
acquittance  for  all  old  debts,  and  likewise  to  subscribe  with  the 
greatest  humility  to  the  justice  of  your  criticism.  How  happy  it 
would  be  for  the  world  if  all  the  reviewers  had  your  taste  and  dis- 
cernment ! They  would  know  what  was  good  when  they  got  it, 
and  they  would  buy  the  “Collegians”  in  cart-loads. 

If  you  are  not  content  with  your  way  of  spending  the  Lent,  I 
don’t  know  what  you  would  say  to  my  dancing  quadrilles  on  Mon- 
day evening  at  a party  in  Baggot  Street.  The  family  is  a most 
agreeable  one,  living  in  very  elegant  style,  ana  the  most  friendly 

and  unaffected  that  you  can  imagine.  I here  met  Miss  , the 

sister  of  the  hero  you  might  have  heard  me  speak  of,  whom  I 
knew  in  London.  She  is  a most  charming  girl  indeed.  I’ll 
tell  you  how  I might  give  you  some  idea  of  her:  if  Ely  O’  Connor 
had  been  a gentlewoman,  she  would  have  been  just  such  a one,  I 

think,  as  Miss . Isn’t  this  very  modest  talking  of  my  heroine  ? 

I have  a great  mind  to  put  her  into  my  next  book,  and  if  I do,  I’ll 
kill  her  as  sure  as  a gun,  for  it  would  be  such  delightful  play.  I 
exult  in  the  destruction  of  amiable  people,  particularly  in  the 
slaughter  of  handsome  young  ladies,  for  it  makes  one’s  third  volume 
so  interesting.  I have  even  a hankering  wish  to  make  a random 
blow  at  yourself,  and  I think  I'll  do  it  some  day  or  other ; so  look 
to  yourself  and  insure  your  life,  I advise  you,  for  I think,  if  well 
managed,  you  would  make  a very  pretty  catastrophe.  But,  until  I 
find  occasion  for  killing  you,  let  my  dear  Lucy  continue  to  love  her 
affectionate  brother.  Gerald  Griffin. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

London,  July  31,  1826. 

My  Dear  William  : I have  just  got  your  letter,  and  write  to 
say  that  there  is  at  present  no  chance  of  my  being  out  of  town  any 


4io 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


time  before  winter.  I have  been  as  hard  at  work,  and  to  as  little 
purpose  as  usual,  since  I wrote  last.  The  News  of  Literature  is 
dead  and  buried,  leaving  me  unpaid  to  some  amount — enough  to  be 
disagreeable.  I am  sorry  to  perceive  you  write  in  unpleasant  spirits ; 
these  things  I have  forgot  a long  time  now,  for  I have  been  so 
seasoned  by  partial  success  and  great  disappointment  that  I am 
become  quite  indifferent  about  either,  though  I am  still  pulling  on 
from  habit. 

My  friend  Llanos  goes  to  France  next  week,  which  I regret  as 
deeply  as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  say.  As  to  success,  or  disappoint- 
ment, or  uncertainty,  or  apprehension,  they  are  all  nonsense.  The 
only  plan  is  to  persuade  yourself  that  you  will  get  on  gloriously,  and 
that’s  the  best  success  going. 

I have,  within  the  last  year,  seen  and  talked  with  some  of  the  most 
successful  geniuses  of  the  day,  and  I perceive  those  who  possess  bril- 
liant reputations  to  be  conceited,  impertinent,  affected  fools,  “out  of 
their  inspiration,”  and  all  others  are  just  about  as  happy  and  as 
miserable  as  the  rest  of  the  world  whom  nobody  knows  or  cares 
about.  I don’t  care  to  know  whether  you  are  aware  of  the  low  ebb 
at  which  literature  is  at  present.  That  accounts  for  my  obscurity, 
of  course.  I write  this  at  such  a New  Market  rate  to  overtake  the 
post  that  I scarcely  know  what  I have  said,  but  it  is  not  of  much 
consequence,  as  we  shall  have  the  happiness  of  meeting  so  soon.  I 
stick  by  honest  Cab’s  motto:  “Hang  sorrow;  care’ll  kill  a cat; 
up  tails  all,  and  a rouse  for  the  hangman.” 

Dear  William,  yours  affectionately, 

Gerald  Griffin. 


LETTER  TO  JOH^  BAKIM. 

Pallas  Kenry,  October,  1836. 

My  dear  Bakim  : It  is  with  no  little  gratification  I find  myself 
writing  to  you  once  more  as  of  old,  to  ask  you  how  you  are,  and  all 
who  are  about  you.  I have  often  thought  since  I left  Windgap  that 
it  must  have  been  an  ease  to  you  to  get  rid  of  me,  you  kept  such 
continual  driving  about  while  I was  with  you;  besides,  the  ex- 
haustion of  the  evenings,  which,  I fear,  must  have  been  too  much 
for  you  in  your  present  state  of  health.  To  enable  me  to  pass  my 
time  pleasantly,  I am  afraid  you  made  it  more  unpleasant  to  your- 


Gerald  Griffin. 


411 

self  than  I ought  to  have  permitted  ; but  I am  a great  hand  at  see- 
ing what  I ought  to  have  done  when  the  occasion  is  past. 

And,  now,  in  the  first  place,  I will  ask  you,  How  have  you  been 
since  ? And  have  you  yet  had  relief  from  those  terrible  pains  and 
sinkings  from  which  you  used  to  suffer  so  much  and  so  continually 
while  I was  with  you  ? I believe  you  would  think  well  of  Munster 
folks  if  you  knew  how  kind  and  general  have  been  their  enquiries 
respecting  you  since  your  return.  How  fervently  do  I wish  that 
time  and  home  and  patience  may  bring  about  in  you  the  same  happy 
change  which  they  have  often  done  in  other  invalids,  and  enable  you 
again  to  take,  and  long  to  hold,  your  rightful  place  at  the  head  of  our 
national  literature.  This  sounds  mighty  like  a fine  speech,  but  let 
it  pass.  Would  it  be  unreasonable  to  ask  you  to  send  me  that  song 
— your  song — when  you  can  conveniently  do  so.  I would  also  wish 
to  have  that  beautiful  little  poem  you  read  to  me  one  evening — the 
lines  “ On  a Churchyard  ” ; some  of  them  have  been  haunting  me 
ever  since  I heard  you  read  them. 

It  is  time  for  me  to  say  something  of  the  other  members  of  your 
family,  and  to  make  enquiries  for  Mrs.  Banim,  and  for  your  sweet 
little  daughter.  It  is  a great  blessing  that  Mrs.  Banim’s  health  has 
held  out  so  well  under  the  severe  trials  and  fatigues  to  which  it  has 
been  so  long  subjected,  and  most  sincerely  do  I hope  that  her  de- 
votedness and  patience  may  ere  long  meet  some  reward  in  seeing 
you  restored  to  at  least  a portion  of  the  health  you  once  enjoyed.  I 
would  be  most  ungrateful — indeed,  very  ungrateful — if  I could  ever 
forget  the  attention  I received  both  from  her  and  you  in  London 
when  friends  were  less  than  few. 

In  your  present  state  it  must  be  a great  source  of  satisfaction  to 
have  your  sweet  little  Mary  near  friends  who  feel  for  her  the  interest 
which  only,  or  almost  only,  relatives  can  feel.  Farewell,  my  dear 
friend.  G-od  bless  you  and  all  you  feel  an  interest  in.  This  is  my 
sincere  and  fervent  prayer.  Remember  me  to  your  father  and 
brother,  also  to  your  sister.  Hoping  that  you  will  find  my  “ shalls  ’’ 
and  “ wills, ” “shoulds”  and  “woulds,”  “ weres  i and  “ have 
beens  ” in  the  foregoing  orthodox,  and  hoping  far  more  ardently 
that  they  may  find  you  in  better  health  and  hope  than  when  I left 
you,  I remain,  my  dear  Banim,  your  sincere  friend, 

Gerald  Griffin. 


JOHN  BAN/M. 


“ Ireland  was  the  theme  most  upon  his  lips,  and  the  love  of  country  glowed  in 
his  bosom  ever  and  always.” 

“ I should  never  be  tired  of  talking  about  and  thinking  of  Banim.  Mark  me  ! 
he  is  a man — the  only  one  I have  met  since  I left  Ireland.” — Gerald  Griffin. 

JOHN  BANIM,  “ a briglit-hearted,  true-souled  Irishman/’  was 
born  in  the  cit)r  of  Kilkenny  on  the  3d  of  April,  1798.  His 
father,  Michael  Banim,  was  a respectable  shop-keeper  and  farmer, 
who  dealt  “in  everything  from  a fowling-piece  of  John  Rigby’s  to 
one  of  Martin  Kelly’s  fishing-rods,  and  kept  a pair  of  well-bred 
horses.”  He  was  a good  Catholic,  and  by  all  who  knew  him  was  re- 
spected for  his  worth  and  intelligence.  We  are  told  that  John’s 
mother,  Joannah  Carroll,  “ possessed  a mind  of  very  superior  order, 
and  a store  of  good  sense  and  womanly,  wifely  patience  ; and  these, 
with  health  and  trust  in  Heaven,  were  her  only  marriage-portion.”  1 
John  was  a precocious  boy,  exhibiting  marks  of  genius  at  an  early 
age.  He  loved  to  study  in  his  own  way.  His  greatest  pleasure 
was  to  steal  from  school,  and,  lying  under  a hedge  or  beneath  the 
shelter  of  a haycock,  to  pore  over  some  prized  volume  of  “romance 
or  fairy  tale.”2  At  six  he  resolved  to  write  a story.  The  table  was 
too  high  for  the  young  novelist,  so  he  placed  his  paper  on  the  bed-  ■ 
room  floor,  an#  there  scribbled  away.  It  took  him  three  months 
to  finish  it.  He  even  wished  to  get  it  printed.  Nor  did  he  end 
with  this  fairy  story. 

“We  have  seen,”  says  his  elegant  and  careful  biographer,  “a 
romance  in  two  thick  manuscript  volumes,  written  in  his  tenth 
year,  and  have  looked  through  several  manuscript  poems,  particu- 
larly one  extending  to  over  a thousand  lines,  entitled  ‘ Hibernia,’ 
written  about  the  same  period.”  Thus  the  lad  was  a poet  and 
novelist,  with  bold,  original,  and  independent  views,  even  before  he 
made  his  first  Communion  ! 

After  a good  preliminary  training,  young  Banim,  in  his  thir- 
teenth year,  was  sent  to  Kilkenny  College.  There  he  pursued  his 

1 Patrick  Joseph  Murray,  “ The  Life  of  John  Banim.” 

412 


2 Ibid. 


John  Banim . 


413 


studies  for  nearly  three  years  ; but,  having  developed  a very  remark- 
able talent  for  drawing  and  painting,  he  selected  the  profession  of 
artist,  and,  in  1813,  was  sent  to  Dublin,  where  he  entered  the  draw- 
ing academy  of  the  Royal  Society  as  a pupil.  For  two  years  more 
drawing  occupied  his  earnest  attention.  He  returned  to  his  native 
city,  and  began  life  as  an  artist  and  teacher  of  drawing.  At  this 
time  John  “ was  just  eighteen  years  of  age,  about  the  middle  height, 
and  of  good  figure.  His  face  was  oval,  and,  though  not  handsome, 
his  broad,  high  forehead  and  his  dark-hued  eyes,  teeming  with  life 
and  spirit,  saved  him  from  the  designation — ugly.”  3 

At  one  of  the  schools  which  he  attended,  as  the  teacher  of  draw- 
ing, was  a young  lady,  a boarder  in  the  establishment  and  a pupil 
of  Banim’s.  She  was  a bright-eyed,  pure-souled,  artless  girl  of 
seventeen.  Banim,  full  of  romance  and  overflowing  with  affection, 
unconsciously  fell  in  love  with  his  pupil,  and  she,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  returned  his  ardent  love.  Her  father — a blunt,  rude- 
tempered  old  man — not  only  refused  Banim’s  proposal  for  his 
daughter’s  hand,  but  insulted  the  high-spirited  young  fellow,  and 
secretly  removed  the  girl  to  a distant  part  of  the  country.  Six 
unhappy  months  passed,  when  the  artist  learned  that  his  lady- 
love was  dead — of  a broken  heart.  The  shock  aroused  him  from 
his  'lethargy,  and  though  in  the  midst  of  winter,  he  started  on 
foot  to  walk  twenty-five  weary  Irish  miles  to  gaze  once  more  on  the 
placid  features  of  his  intended  bride.  He  arrived  at  his  destination, 
sadly  followed  her  hearse  to  the  churchyard,  “and  when  all  had 
departed,  cast  himself  upon  the  fresh  green  mound  that  marked  the 
grave  of  his  first  love.”  Poor  Banim  ! Sick  at  heart,  with  an 
empty  stomach  and  a trembling  frame,  he  turned  his  steps  home- 
wards. Where  he  passed  the  night  that  followed,  he  could  never 
remember.  Next  morning  he  was  met  by  his  brother,  leaning  upon 
whose  arm  he  came  home.  He  lay  down  on  his  sick-bed,  and  for 
twelve  months  he  merely  existed.  The  mental  excitement  he  had 
undergone  and  the  exposure  endured  on  his  journey  culminated  in 
a chronic  disease  of  the  spine,  from  which  he  never  entirely  re- 
covered. 

On  regaining  his  health,  Banim  soon  abandoned  the  profession  of 
an  artist.  He  first  became  a contributor  to  a local  paper,  the 
Leinster  Gazette,  and  then  editor  of  the  same.  Early  in  1820  he 
left  his  father’s  house  for  Dublin,  and  from  this  period  we  may  date 


* “ Life  of  Banim.” 


414 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


his  life  as  a literary  man.  His  letters  reveal  his  many  difficulties — 
his  early  struggles  for  recognition,  and  his  occasionally  “ whistling 
for  want  of  a dinner.”  But  Banim  was  bold,  manly,  the  very  soul 
of  resolution  ; literature  counts  no  name  more  heroic,  and  perse- 
vering, and  independent.  He  turned  his  attention  to  the  drama, 
and  on  the  28th  of  May;  1821,  his  “ Damon  and  Pythias,”  an  his- 
torical play  of  great  excellence,  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  the  author  being  only  in  his  twenty-fourth  year.  Macready 
and  Charles  Kemble  took  the  principal  parts. 

In  conjunction  with  his  brother  Michael4  he  laid  the  foundation 
of  the  celebrated-  “ Tales  of  the  O’Hara  Family  ” — John  to  be  known 
by  the  nom  de  plume  of  Abel  O’Hara,  and  Michael  by  that  of 
Barnes  O’Hara.  Each  was  to  write  as  much  as  possible,  and  submit 
his  MS.  to  the  other  for  criticism.  At  that  time  Michael  was  in 
business  with  his  father,  and  could  only  devote  his  occasional  leisure 
moments  to  composition,  while  his  more  gifted  brother  proposed  to 
go  to  London  and  devote  himself  wholly  to  literature. 

Banim  was  an  earnest  Catholic,  and  an  ardent  and  patriotic 
Irishman,  and  at  this  period  Ireland  had  long  grown  sick  and  weary 
of  resting  under  the  iron  heels  of  religious  degradation  and  politi- 
cal despotism.  The  Irishman  was  then  placed  in  print  only  to  be 
jeered  and  mocked  at.  Banim  saw  this.  He  determined  to  do 
some  tiling  for  himself  and  the  good  name  of  his  country.  He  re- 
solved to  do  for  Ireland  what  Sir  Walter  Scott  had  done  for  Scot- 
land. In  short,  he  longed  to  become  the  novelist  of  his  dear  native 
isle. 

In  1822,  he  married  Miss  Ellen  Ruth,  the  pretty  daughter  of  a 
“gentleman-farmer”  of  his  native  county.  Less  than  a month 
after  his  marriage,  he  set  out  with  his  young  wife  for  London,  really 
to  seek  their  fortune.  He  had  little  money,  but  he  possessed  that 
wonderful  courage  which  ever  dwells  in  the  strong,  deep  heart  of 
genius.  He  soon  made  friends.  He  wrote  for  the  periodicals.  He 
was  ever  “up  and  doing.”  In  April,  1825,  the  first  volume  of 
“The  Tales  of  the  O’Hara  Family”  appeared.  This  brought  him 
fame  and  money.  “The  Boyne  Water”  was  issued  early  in  1826. 
The  following  year  he  produced  “ Sylla,”  a tragedy.  “ The  Croppy,” 

* Michael  Banim,  John’s  elder  brother  and  literary  partner,  was  born  in  1796.  The 
Banim  family  consisted  of  Michael,  John,  and  Joannah.  Michael  Banim,  towards  the 
end  of  his  life,  held  the  position  of  Postmaster  of  Kilkenny,  and  died  only  a few  years 
ago. 


yohn  Banim. 


415 


‘‘The  Anglo-Irish,”  “The  Ghost- Hunter, ” “The  Denounced, ” 
“ The  Smuggler,”  “The  Mayor  of  Windgap,”  and,  finally, “ Father 
Connell  ” were  issued  in  rapid  succession  from  this  time  until  1840, 
when  the  literary  labors  of  the  brothers  entirely  ceased. 

The  sorrow  which  shaded  John  Banim’s  young  days  rested  on  his 
last  years.  In  1830  occurred  the  death  of  his  mother,  whom  he 
loved  with  all  the  intensity  of  his  poetic  nature.  It  was  a sad  blow. 
But  death  was  quickly  stealing  even  after  himself.  In  January, 
1832,  he  wrote  to  his  brother  : “ My  dear  Michael  : My  legs  are  quite 
gone,  and  I suffer  agony  in  the  extreme,  yet  I try  to  work  for  all 
that.”  Cholera  attacked  him  the  same  year.  His  weak  and  shat- 
tered body  never  recovered,  and  the  gifted  and  high-souled  Banim 
was  a confirmed  cripple  for  the  brief  remainder  of  his  life. 

In  1835  he  returned  to  his  birthplace  to  -die.  The  next  year  a 
pension  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a year  was  bestowed  on 
him  by  the  Government.  This  lightened  his  anxieties  for  the  future, 
but  did  not  serve  to  prolong  his  bright  and  useful  life.  In  his  little 
cottage  of  Windgap,  surrounded  by  all  the  delicate  attentions  that 
his  devoted  wife  and  affectionate  relatives  could  bestow,  he  breathed 
his  last  in  the  summer  of  1842. 

“Have  you  seen  Banim’s  ‘ O’Hara  Tales  ’ ?”  writes  Gerald  Griffin 
to  his  brother.  “If  not,  read  them,  and  say  what  you  think  of 
them.  I think  them  most  vigorous  and  original  things,  overflowing 
with  the  very  spirit  of  poesy,  passion,  and  painting.  All  our  critics 
here  say  they  are  admirably  written ; that  nothing  since  Scott’s  first 
novels  has  equalled  them.  I think  they  are  astonishing  in  that 
power  of  creating  an  intense  interest  without  stepping  out  of  real 
life,  and  in  the  very  easy  and  natural  drama  that  is  carried  through 
them,  as  well  as  in  the  excellent  tact  which  he  shows  in  seizing  on 
all  the  points  of  national  character  which  are  capable  of  effect.  ” 6 

“ The  story  of  ‘The  Nowlans ’ and  that  of  ‘ Croohore  of  the  Bill- 
Hook,”’  writes  Mr.  Chambers,  “can  never  be  forgotten  by  those 
who  have  once  perused  them.  The  force  of  the  passions  and  the 
effects  of  crime  have  rarely  been  painted  with  such  overmastering 
energy,  or  wrought  into  narratives  of  more  sustained  and  harrowing 
interest.” 6 

As  a distinguished  dramatist,  novelist,  and,  above  all,  as  a man , 
John  Banim  stands  in  the  front  rank.  He  is  a powerful  describer 


6 Letter  of  June  18,  1825. 

« “Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature,”  vol.  ii. 


4 16  The  Prose  a,7id  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

of  Irish  life,  for  liis  genius  was  truly  Irish,  and  his  knowledge  of 
the  Irish  character,  habits,  and  customs,  was  most  accurate.  He  was 
a brave,  noble,  generous-hearted  man.  His  purse — often  poorly 
filled — was  always  open  to  the  needy  and  the  distressed.  Like  all 
good  and  lofty  geniuses,  jealousy  of  rivals  was  to  him  a feeling  un- 
known. He  was  ever  ready  to  assist  Gerald  Griffin,  and  was  the 
only  true  friend  which  that  bright  soul  of  genius  met  in  London.  “ I 
cannot  tell  you,”  writes  Griffin  to  his  brother,  “the  many  many  in- 
stances in  which  Banim  has  shown  his  friendship  since  1 wrote  last ; 
let  it  suffice  to  say  that  he  is  the  sincerest,  heartiest,  most  disinter- 
ested being  that  breathes.  His  fireside  is  the  only  one  where  I en- 
joy anything  like  social  life  or  home.” 

We  consider  Banim’s  letters  as,  perhaps,  the  most  hearty,  direct, 
and  graceful  specimens  of  epistolary  correspondence  in  English 
literature.  There  is  about  them  a simplicity,  easy  dash,  and  pointed 
brevity  for  which  we  look  in  vain  in  other  great  authors. 

The  following  lines  to  the  memory  of  John  Banim  are  from  the 
pen  of  the  Hon.  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee  ; 

“ Go  preach  to  those  who  have  no  souls  to  save,  who  would  not  shed  a tear 
O’er  beauty’s  blight,  or  patriot’s  worth,  or  virtue  on  the  bier 
Far  from  the  land  that  bore  us,  oft  did  he  restore 
The  memory  of  our  earlier  days,  our  country’s  matchless  lore 


“ Who  hath  not  paused  wuh  burning  brow  o’er  his  immortal  story 
Of  Sarsfield  and  his  Irish  hearts  in  Limerick’s  fist  of  glory, 

Or  sorrowed  with  the  aged  priest  or  MacNary’s  lovely  daughter, 
Or  felt  the  power  that  genius  sheds  o’er  Boyne’s  historic  water  ? 


“ Scarce  had  he  to  the  world  given  the  ancient  pastor’s  worth 
When  he  whose  pen  could  paint  the  soul  was  torn  away  from  earth  ; 

And  many  a calm  declining  eve  upon  his  tombless  grave 

Shall  Kilkenny’s  daughters  strew  their  flowers  and  sing  a requiem  stave/’7 


7 Banim’s  works,  in  ton  volumes,  are  published  by  D.  & J.  Sadlier  & Co.,  New  York. 


John  Banim.  417 

SELECTIONS  FROM  BANIM’S  WRITINGS. 

SOGGARTH  AROON  ! 8 

Am  I a slave,  they  say, 

Soggarth  Aroon? 

Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 

Their  slave  no  more  to  be. 

While  they  did  work  with  me 
Old  Ireland’s  slavery, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 

Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ' 

Her  commands  to  fulfil. 

Of  his  own  heart  and  will. 

Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 

Yet  be  no  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon ! 

Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 

Stand  up  so  near  to  you — 

Och  ! out  of  fear  to  you  ! 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 

Who  in  the  winter’s  night, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 

When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  Aroon ! 

Came  to  my  cabin-door. 

And  on  my  cabin-floor. 

Knelt  by  me  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 


8 Soggarth  Aroon  !— Priest  dear. 


4l8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


Who  on  the  marriage-day, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 

At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

Who  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 
And  when  my  heart  was  dim 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim. 
What  I should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

Och  ! you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 
A.nd  for  this  I was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 
In  love  they’ll  never  shake, 

When  for  Old  Ireland’s  sake 
We  a true  part  did  take  ! 

Soggarth  Aroon  ! 


AILLEEN-. 

’Tis  not  for  love  of  gold  I go, 

’Tis  not  for  love  of  fame, 

Though  fortune  should  her  smile  bestow. 
And  I may  win  a name, 

Ailleen, 

And  I may  win  a name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame — 

That  they  may  deck  another  brow. 

And  bless  another  name, 

Ailleen, 

And  bless  another  name. 


4 


wi 


. 


John  Banim. 


410 


For  this,  but  this,  I go  ; for  this 
I lose  thy  love  awhile, 

And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 
Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile, 
Ailleen, 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile. 

And  I go  to  brave  a world  I hate. 

And  woo  it  o’er  and  o’er. 

And  tempt  a wave  and  try  a fate 
Upon  a stranger  shore, 

Ailleen, 

Upon  a stranger  shore. 

Oh  ! when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

I know  a heart  will  care ; 

Oh  ! when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 
I know  a brow  shall  wear, 

Ailleen, 

I know  a brow  shall  wear. 

And  when  with  both  returned  again, 
My  native  land  to  see, 

I know  a smile  will  meet  me  there, 
And  a hand  will  welcome  me, 
Ailleen, 

And  a hand  will  welcome  me. 


THE  RECONCILIATION. 

[The  facts  recorded  in  this  ballad  occurred  in  a little  mountain  chapel  in  the 
county  of  Clare  at  the  time  efforts  were  made  to  put  an  end  to  faction  fighting 
among  the  peasantry.] 

The  old  man  knelt  at  the  altar, 

His  enemy’s  hand  to  take, 

And  at  first  his  weak  voice  did  falter 
And  his  feeble  limbs  did  shake  ; 

For  his  only  brave  boy,  his  glory, 

Had  been  stretched  at  the  old  man’s  feet 
A corpse,  all  so  haggard  and  gory, 

By  the  hand  which  he  now  must  greet. 


420 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


And  soon  the  old  man  stopt  speaking. 

And  rage,  which  had  not  gone  by. 

For  under  his  brows  came  breaking 
Up  into  his  enemy’s  eye  ; 

And  now  his  limbs  were  not  shaking. 

But  his  clenched  hands  his  bosom  crossed. 
And  he  looked  a fierce  wish  to  be  taking 
Bevenge  for  the  boy  he  had  lost. 

But  the  old  man  he  looked  around  him 
And  thought  of  the  place  he  was  in, 

And  thought  of  the  promise  which  bound  him. 
And  thought  that  revenge  was  sin; 

And  then,  crying  tears  like  a woman, 

“ Your  hand,”  he  said,  “ ay,  that  hand. 

And  I do  forgive  you,  foeman, 

For  the  sake  of  our  bleeding  land  !” 


THE  STOLEH  SHEEP. 

[From  “ The  Bit  o’  WritinV’] 

The  faults  of  the  lower  classes  of  the  Irish  are  sufficiently  well 
known ; perhaps  their  virtues  have  not  been  proportionately  ob- 
served, or  recorded  for  observation. 

The  Irish  plague,  called  typhus  fever,  raged  in  its  terrors.  In 
almost  every  third  cabin  there  was  a corpse  daily.  In  every  one, 
without  an  exception,  there  was  what  had  made  the  corpse — hun- 
ger. It  need  not  be  added  that  there  was  poverty,  too.  The  poor 
could  not  bury  their  dead.  From  mixed  motives  of  self-protection, 
terror,  and  benevolence,  those  in  easier  circumstances  exerted  them- 
selves to  administer  relief  in  different  ways.  Money  was  sub- 
scribed ; wholesome  food,  or  food  as  wholesome  as  a bad  season 
permitted,  was  provided  ; and  men  of  respectability,  bracing  their 
minds  to  avert  the  danger  that  threatened  themselves  by  boldly 
facing  it,  entered  the  infected  house,  where  death  reigned  almost 
alone,  and  took  measures  to  cleanse  and  purify  the  close-cribbed 
air  and  the  rough,  bare  walls.  Before  proceeding  to  our  story,  let 
us  be  permitted  to  mention  some  general  marks  of  Irish  virtue, 
which,  under  those  circumstances,  we  personally  noticed.  In 


John  Banim. 


42 


poverty,  in  abject  misery,  and  at  a short  and  fearful  notice,  the  poor 
man  died  like  a Christian.  He  gave  vent  to  none  of  the  poor  man’s 
complaints  or  invectives  against  the  rich  man  who  had  neglected 
him,  or  who,  he  might  have  supposed,  had  done  so  till  it  was  too 
late.  Except  for  a glance — and  doubtless  a little  inward  pang 
while  he  glanced — at  the  starving  and  perhaps  infected  wife,  or 
child,  or  old  parent,  as  helpless  as  the  child,  he  blessed  God  and 
died. 

The  appearance  of  a comforter  at  his  wretched  bedside,  even 
when  he  knew  comfort  to  be  useless,  made  his  heart  grateful  and  his 
spasmed  lips  eloquent  in  thanks.  In  cases  of  indescribable  misery — 
some  member  of  his  family  lying  lifeless  before  his  eyes,  or  else 
some  dying,  stretched  upon  damp  and  unclean  straw,  on  an  earthen 
floor,  without  cordial  for  his  lips  or  potatoes  to  point  out  to  a cry- 
ing infant — often  we  have  heard  him  whisper  to  himself  (and  to 
another  who  heard  him),  “ The  Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh 
away;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.”  Such  men  need  not 
always  make  bad  neighbors. 

In  the  early  progress  of  the  fever,  before  the  more  affluent  aroused 
themselves  to  avert  its  career,  we  cross  the  threshold  of  an  indi- 
vidual peasant.  His  young  wife  lies  dead  ; his  second  child  is 
dying  at  her  side ; he  has  just  sunk  into  a corner  himself  under  the 
first  stun  of  disease,  long  resisted.  The  only  persons  of  his  family 
who  have  escaped  contagion,  and  are  likely  to  escape  it,  are  his  old 
father,  who  sits  weeping  feebly  upon  the  hob,  and  his  first-born,  a 
boy  of  three  or  four  years,  who,  standing  between  the  old  man’s 
knees,  cries  also  for  food. 

We  visit  the  young  peasant's  abode  some  time  after.  He  has  not 
sunk  under  “ the  sickness.”  He  is  fast  regaining  his  strength,  even 
without  proper  nourishment ; he  can  creep  out  of  doors  and  sit  in 
the  sun.  But  in  the  expression  of  his  sallow  and  emaciated  face 
there  is  no  joy  for  his  escape  from  the  grave  as  he  sits  there  silent, 
brooding.  His  father  and  his  surviving  child  are  still  hungry — 
more  hungry,  indeed,  and  more  helpless  than  ever,  for  the  neigh- 
bors who  had  relieved  the  family  with  a potato  and  a mug  of  sour 
milk  are  now  stricken  down  themselves,  and  want  assistance  to  a 
much  greater  extent  than  they  can  give  it. 

“ I wish  Mr.  Evans  w’as  in  the  place,”  cogitated  Michaul  Carroll ; 
“a  body  could  spake  for’nent  him,  and  not  spake  for  nothin’,  for  all 
that  he’s  an  Englishman ; and  I don’t  like  the  thoughts  o’  goin’  up 


42  2 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


to  the  house  to  the  steward’s  face;  it  wouldn’t  turn  kind  to  a body. 
Maybe  he’d  soon  come  home  to  us,  the  mastlier  himself.” 

Another  fortnight  elapsed.  Michaul’s  hope  proved  vain.  Mr. 
Evans  was  still  in  London  ; though  a regular  resident  on  his  small 
Irish  estate  since  it  had  come  into  his  possession;  business  unfortu- 
nately— and  he  wrould  have  said  so  himself — now  kept  him  an  un- 
usually long  time  absent.  Thus  disappointed,  Michaul  overcame 
his  repugnance  to  appear  before  the  “hard”  steward.  He  only 
asked  for  work,  however.  There  was  none  to  be  had.  He  turned 
his  slow  and  still  feeble  foot  into  the  adjacent  town.  It  was  market- 
day,  and  he  took  up  his  place  among  the  crowd  of  other  claimants  for 
agricultural  employment,  shouldering  a spade,  as  did  each  of  his 
comrades.  Many  farmers  came  to  the  well-known  “stannin’,”  and 
hired  men  at  his  right  and  at  his  left,  but  no  one  addressed  Michaul. 
Once  or  twice,  indeed,  touched  perhaps  by  his  sidelong  looks  of 
beseeching  misery,  a farmer  stopped  a moment  before  him,  and 
glanced  over  his  figure ; but  his  worn  and  almost  shaking  limbs 
giving  little  promise  of  present  vigor  in  the  working-field,  worldly 
prudence  soon  conquered  the  humane  feeling  which  started  towards 
him  in  the  man’s  heart,  and,  with  a choking  in  his  throat,  poor 
Michaul  saw  the  arbiter  of  his  fate  pass  on. 

He  walked  homewards  without  having  broken  his  fast  that  day. 
“Bud,  musha,  what’s  the  harm  o’  that,”  he  said  to  himself  ; “only 
here’s  the  ould  father  an’  her  pet  boy,  the  weenoch  without  a pyathee 
either.  Well  asthore,  if  they  can’t  have  thepyathees,  they  must  have 
betther  food — that’s  all.  Ay,”  he  muttered,  clenching  his  hands 
at  his  sides,  and  imprecating  fearfully  in  Irish,  “an’  so  they  must.” 

He  left  his  house  again,  and  walked  a good  way  to  beg  a few  po- 
tatoes. He  did  not  come  home  quite  empty-handed ; his  father 
and  his  child  had  a meal.  He  ate  but  few  himself  ; and  when  he 
was  about  to  lie  down  in  his  corner  for  the  night,  he  said  to  the  old 
man  across  the  room  : “ Don’t  be  crying  to-night,  father — you  and 
the  child  there — but  sleep  well,  an’  ye’ll  have  the  good  break’ast 
afore  ye  in  the  morning.” 

“ The  good  break’ast,  ma-bouchal!9  a-thin  an’  where  ’ill  id  come 
from  ?” 

“A  body  promised  it  to  me,  father.” 

“ Avich,  Michaul,  an’  sure  its  fun  you’re  making  of  us  now  at 
any  rate.  Bud,  the  good  night,  a-chorra ,10  an’  my  blessin’  on  your 

8 My  boy.  10  Term  of  endearment. 


John  Banzm. 


423 


head,  Michaul.  If  we  keep  trust  in  the  good  God,  an’  ax  his  bless- 
in’  too,  mornin’  and  evenin’,  gettin’  up  and  lyin’  down,  he’ll  he  a 
friend  to  us  at  last.  That  was  always  an’  ever  my  word  to  you,  poor 
boy  since  you  was  the  years  o’  your  own  weenoch  now  fast  asleep  at  my 
side  ; an’  it’s  my  word  to  you  now,  ma-bouchal,  and  you  won’t  forget 
id.  And  there’s  one  sayin’  the  same  to  you  out  0’  heaven  this  night 
— herself  an’  her  little  angel-in-glory,  by  the  hand,  Michaul  a-vour- 
neen.” 

Having  thus  spoken  in  the  fervent  and  rather  exaggerated,  though 
everyday,  words  of  pious  allusion  of  the  Irish  poor  man,  old  Carroll 
soon  dropped  asleep  with  his  arms  around  his  little  grandson,  both 
overcome  by  an  unusually  abundant  meal.  In  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  was  awakened  by  a stealthy  noise.  Without  moving,  he 
cast  his  eyes  round  the  cabin.  A small  window,  through  which  the 
moon  broke  brilliantly,  was  open.  He  called  to  his  son,  but  received 
no  answer.  He  called  again  and  again ; all  remained  silent.  He 
arose,  and  crept  to  the  corner  where  Michaul  had  lain  down.  It 
was  empty.  He  looked  out  through  the  window  into  the  moon- 
light. The  figure  of  a man  appeared  at  a distance  just  about  to 
enter  a pasture-field  belonging  to  Mr.  Evans. 

The  old  man  leaned  his  back  against  the  wall  of  the  cabin,  tremb- 
ling with  sudden  and  terrible  misgivings.  With  him  the  language 
of  virtue  which  we  have  heard  him  utter  was  not  cant. 

In  early  prosperity,  in  subsequent  misfortunes,  and  in  his  late 
and  present  excess  of  wretchedness  he  had  never  swerved  in  prac- 
tice from  the  spirit  of  his  own  exhortations  to  honesty  before  men, 
and  love  for  and  dependence  upon  God,  which,  as  he  has  truly  said, 
he  had  constantly  addressed  to  his  son  since  his  earliest  childhood. 
And  hitherto  that  son  had  indeed  walked  by  his  precepts,  further 
assisted  by  a regular  observance  of  the  duties  of  his  religion.  Was 
he  now  about  to  turn  into  another  path,  to  bring  shame  on  his 
father  in  his  old  age,  to  put  a stain  on  their  family  and  their 
name  ? “ the  name  that  a rogue  or  a bould  woman  never  bore,”  con- 
tinued old  Carroll,  indulging  in  some  of  the  pride  and  egotism  for 
which  an  Irish  peasant  is,  under  his  circumstance,  remarkable. 
And  then  came  the  thought  of  the  personal  peril  incurred  by 
Michaul,  and  his  agitation,  incurred  by  the  feebleness  of  age,  nearly 
overpowered  him. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  floor  shivering  like  one  in  an  ague  fit,  when 
he  heard  steps  outside  the  house.  He  listened  and  they  ceased,  but 


424  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

the  familiar  noise  of  an  old  barn-door  creaking  on  its  crazy  hinges 
came  on  his  ear.  It  was  now  day-dawn.  He  dressed  himself,  stole 
out  cautiously,  peeped  into  the  barn  through  a chink  of  the  door, 
and  all  he  feared  met  full  confirmation.  There,  indeed,  sat  Michaul, 
busily  and  earnestly  engaged,  with  a frowning  brow  and  a haggard 
face,  in  quartering  the  animal  he  had  stolen  from  Mr.  Evans’s 
field. 

The  sight  sickened  the  father — the  blood  on  his  son’s  hands  and 
all.  He  was  barely  able  to  keep  himself  from  falling.  A fear,  if 
not  a dislike,  of  the  unhappy  culprit  also  came  upon  him.  His  un- 
conscious impulse  was  to  re-enter  their  cabin  unperceived,  without 
speaking  a word.  He  succeeded  in  doing  so,  and  then  he  fastened 
the  door  again,  and  undressed  and  resumed  his  place  beside  his  in- 
nocent little  grandson. 

About  an  hour  after,  Michaul  came  in  cautiously  through  the 
still  open  window,  and  also  undressed  and  reclined  on  his  straw, 
after  glancing  towards  his  father’s  bed,  who  pretended  to  be  asleep. 

At  the  usual  time  for  arising  old  Carroll  saw  him  suddenly  jump 
up  and  prepare  to  go  abroad.  He  spoke  to  him,  leaning  on  his 
elbow. 

“ An’  what  bollg 11  is  on  you,  ma-bouchal  ? ” 

“ Going  for  the  good  break’ast  I promised  you,  father  dear.” 

“ An’  who’s  the  good  Christian  ’ill  give  id  to  us,  Michaul  ? ” 

“ Oh  ! you’ll  know  that  soon,  father ; now,  a good-by.”  He  hur- 
ried to  the  door. 

“A  good-by,  the  Michaul;  bud,  tell  me  what’s  that  on  your 
hand  ?” 

“ No — nothing,”  stammered  Michaul,  changing  color,  as  he 
hastily  examined  the  hand  himself.  “Nothing  is  on  id;  what 
could  there  be  ? ” 

Nor  was  there,  for  he  had  very  carefully  removed  all  evidence  of 
guilt  from  his  person,  and  the  father’s  question  was  asked  upon 
grounds  distinct  from  anything  he  then  saw. 

“ Well,  avich,  an’  sure  I didn’t  say  anything  was  on  it  wrong,  or 
anything  to  make  you  look  so  quare  an’  spake  so  sthrange  to  your 
father  this  mornin’.  Only  I’ll  ax  you,  Michaul,  over  again,  Who 
has  tuk  such  a sudd’n  likin’  to  us  to  send  us  the  good  break’ast  ? an 
answer  me  sthraight,  Michaul.  What  is  it  to  be  that  you  call  so 
good  ? ” 


1 What  are  you  about  ? 


John  Banim. 


425 


“The  good  mate,  father.”  He  was  again  passing  the  threshold. 

“ Stop  ! ” cried  his  father,  “ stop,  and  turn  foment  me.  Mate — 
the  good  mate  ? What  ’ud  bring  mate  into  our  poor  house,  Mi- 
chaul  ? Tell  me,  I bid  you  again  an’  again,  who  is  to  give  id  to 
you  ? ” 

“ Why,  as  I said  afore  father,  a body  that  ” — 

“ A body  that  thieved  it,  Michaul  Carroll ! ” added  the  old  man, 
as  his  son  hesitated,  walking  close  up  to  the  culprit.  “A  body 
that  thieved  id,  an’  no  other  body.  Don’t  think  to  blind  me,  Mi- 
chaul. I am  ould,  to  be  sure,  but  sense  enough  is  left  in  me  to 
look  round  among  the  neighbors  in  my  own  mind  and  know  that 
none  of  ’em  that  has  the  will  has  the  power  to  send  us  the  mate 
for  our  break’ ast  in  an  honest  way.  An’  I don’t  say  outright  that 
you  had  the  same  thought  wid  me  when  you  consented  to  take  it 
from  a thief.  I don’t  mean  to  say  that  you’d  go  to  turn  a thief’s 
recaiver  at  this  hour  0’  your  life,  an’  afther  growin’  up  from  a bey 
to  a man  widout  bringin’  a spot  0’  shame  on  yourself,  or  on  your 
weenock,  or  on  one  of  us.  No,  I won’t  say  that.  Your  heart  was 
scalded,  Michaul,  and  your  mind  was  darkened,  for  a start,  and  the 
thought  o’  getting  comfort  for  the  ould  father  and  the  little  son 
made  you  consent  in  a hurry,  widout  lookin’  well  afore  you  or  wid- 
out lookin’  up  to  your  good  God.” 

“ Father,  father,  let  me  alone ; don’t  spake  them  words  to  me  ! ” 
interrupted  Michaul,  sitting  on  a stool,  and  spreading  his  large 
and  hard  hands  over  his  face. 

“Well,  thin,  an’  I won’t,  avich,  I won’t ; nothin’  to  trouble  you 
sure ; I did’nt  mean  id.  Only  this,  a-vourneen , don’t  bring  a mouth- 
ful 0’  the  bad,  unlucky  victuals  into  this  cabin.  The  pyatees,  the 
wild  berries  0’  the  bush,  the  wild  roots  0’  the  earth  will  be  sweeter 
to  us,  Michaul ; the  hunger  itself  will  be  sweeter  ; an’  when  we  givf 
God  thanks  afther  our  poor  meal,  or  afther  no  meal  at  all,  our  hearts 
will  be  lighter,  and  our  hopes  for  to-morrow  stlironger,  avich-ma- 
chree , than  if  we  faisted  on  the  fat  o’  the  land,  but  couldn’t  ax  a 
blessin’  on  our  faist.” 

“Well,  thin,  I won’t  either,  father,  I won’t;  an’  sure  you  have 
your  own  way  now.  I’ll  only  go  out  a little  while  from  you  to 
beg ; or  else,  as  you  say,  to  root  down  in  the  ground  with  my  nails, 
like  a baste-brute,  for  our  break’ast.” 

“ My  vourneen  you  are,  Michaul,  an’  my  blessing  on  your  head  ! 
Yes,  to  be  sure,  avich , beg,  an’  I’ll  beg  wid  you.  Sorrow  a shame  is 


426 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


in  that ; no,  but  a good  deed,  Michaul,  when  it  is  done  to  keep  us 
honest.  So  come,  we’ll  go  among  the  Christians  together.  Only 
before  we  go,  Michaul,  my  dear  son,  tell  me — tell  me  one  thing.  ” 

“What,  father  ?”  Michaul  began  to  suspect. 

“Never  be  afraid  to  tell  me,  Michaul  Carroll,  ma-bouchal , I won’t 
— I can’t  be  angry  wid  you  now.  You  are  sorry,  an’  your  Father 
in  heaven  forgives  you,  and  so  do  I.  But  you  know,  avicli , there 
would  be  danger  in  quitting  the  place  without  hiding  well  every 
scrap  of  anything  that  could  tell  on  us.” 

“ Tell  on  us  ! What  can  tell  us  ? ” demanded  Michaul ; “ what’s 
in  the  place  to  tell  on  us  ? ” 

“ Nothing  in  the  cabin,  I know,  Michaul ; but — ” 

“ But  what,  father  ? ” 

“ Have  you  left  nothin’  in  the  way  out  there  ? ” whispered  the 
old  man,  pointing  towards  the  barn. 

“ Out  there  ? Where  ? What  ? What  do  you  mean  at  all  now, 
father  ? Sure  you  know  its  your  own  self  has  kept  me  from  as 
much  as  lay  in’  a hand  on  it.” 

“Ay,  to-day — mornin’ ; bat  you  laid  a hand  on  it  last  night, 
avicli , an5*  so — ” 

“ Curp-an  dhoul!  ” imprecated  Michaul ; “ this  is  too  bad  at  any 
rate.  No,  I didn’t,  last  night  or  any  other  night.  Let  me  alone,  I 
bid  you,  father.” 

“ Come  back  again,  Michaul,”  commanded  old  Carroll,  as  the  son 
once  more  hurried  to  the  door,  and  his  words  were  instantly  obeyed. 
Michaul,  after  a glance  abroad  and  a start,  which  the  old  man  did 
not  notice,  paced  to  the  middle  of  the  floor,  hanging  his  head,  and 
saying  in  a low  voice  : “ Hushth  now,  father  ; it’s  time.” 

“'No,  Michaul,  I will  not  hushth  ; and  it’s  not  time.  Come  out 
with  me  to  the  barn.” 

“Hushth!”  repeated  Michaul,  whispering  sharply.  He  had 
glanced  sideways  to  the  square  patch  of  strong  morning  sunlight 
on  the  ground  of  the  cabin,  defined  there  by  the  shape  of  the  open 
door,  and  saw  it  intruded  upon  by  the  shadow  of  a man’s  bust  lean- 
ing forward  in  an  earnest  posture. 

“ Is  id  in  your  mind  to  go  back  into  your  sin,  Michaul,  an’  tell  me 
you  were  not  in  the  barn  at  daybreak  the  mornin’  ? ” asked  his  fa- 
ther, still  unconscious  of  a reason  for  silence. 

“ Arrah,  hushth,  ould  man  ! ” Michael  made  a hasty  sign  towards 
the  door,  but  was  disregarded. 


John  Banim.  427 

“ I saw  you  in  id,”  pursued  old  Carroll  sternly;  “ ay,  an’  at  your 
work  in  id,  too.” 

“ What’s  that  your  sayin’,  ould  Peery  Carroll  ? ” demanded  a well- 
known  voice. 

“ Enough  to  hang  his  son,”  whispered  Michaul  to  his  father,  as 
Mr.  Evans’s  land-steward,  followed  by  his  herdsman  and  two  police- 
men, entered  the  cabin.  In  a few  minutes  afterwards  the  policemen 
had  in  charge  the  dismembered  carcass  of  the  sheep,  dug  up  out  of 
the  floor  of  the  barn,  and  were  escorting  Michaul,  handcuffed,  to  the 
county  jail,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  next  town.  They  could  find  no 
trace  of  the  animal’s  skin,  though  they  sought  attentively  for  it, 
and  this  seemed  to  disappoint  them  and  the  steward  a good  deal. 

From  the  moment  that  they  entered  the  cabin  till  their  depart- 
ure, old  Carroll  did  not  speak  a word.  Without  knowing  it,  as  it 
seemed,  he  sat  down  on  his  straw  bed,  and  remained  staring  stupidly 
around  him,  or  at  one  or  other  of  his  visitors.  When  Michaul  was 
about  to  leave  the  wretched  abode,  he  paced  quickly  towards  his 
father,  and,  holding  out  his  ironed  hands  and  turning  his  cheek 
for  a kiss,  said,  smiling  miserably,  “God  be  wid  you,  father  dear.” 
Still  the  old  man  was  silent,  and  the  prisoner  and  all  his  attendants 
passed  out  on  the  road.  But  it  was  then  the  agony  of  old  Carroll 
assumed  a distinctness.  U ttering  a fearful  cry,  he  snatched  up  his 
still  sleeping  little  grandson,  ran  with  the  boy  in  his  arms  till  he 
overtook  Michaul,  and  kneeling  down  before  him  in  the  dust, 
said  : 

“ I ax  pardon  o’  you,  avich  ; won’t  you  tell  me  I have  id  afore  you 
go  ? An’  here  I’ve  brought  little  Peery  for  you  to  kiss ; you  forgot 
him,  a-vourneen .” 

“No,  father,  I didn’t ; ” answered  Michaul,  as  he  stooped  to  kiss 
the  child  ; “ an’  get  up,  father,  get  up ; my  hands  are  not  my  own, 
or  I wouldn’t  let  you  do  that  afore  your  son.  Get  up,  there’s  no- 
thin’ for  you  to  throuble  yourself  about — that  is,  I mean,  I have 
nothin’  to  forgive  you ; no,  but  everything  to  be  thankful  for,  and 
to  love  you  for  ; you  were  always  and  ever  the  good  father  to  me ; 
an’ — ” The  many  strong  and  bitter  feelings  which  till  now  he 

had  almost  perfectly  kept  in  found  full  vent,  and  poor  Michaul 
could  not  go  on.  The  parting  from  his  father,  however,  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  had  promised  to  be,  comforted  him.  The  old 
man  held  him  in  his  arms  and  wept  on  his  neck.  They  were  sepa- 
rated with  difficulty. 


428 


The  Prose  a?id  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Peery  Carroll,  sitting  on  the  roadside,  after  he  had  lost  sight 
of  the  prisoner,  and  holding  his  screaming  grandson  on  his  knees, 
thought  the  cup  of  his  trials  was  full.  By  his  imprudence  he 
had  fixed  the  proof  of  guilt  on  his  own  child ; that  reflection  was 
enough  for  him  ; and  he  could  indulge  it  only  generally.  But  he 
was  yet  to  conceive  exactly  in  what  a dilemma  he  had  involved  him- 
self as  well  as  Michaul.  The  policemen  came  back  to  compel  his 
appearance  before  the  magistrate ; and  when  the  little  child  had 
been  disposed  of  in  a neighbor’s  cabin,  he  understood,  to  his  conster- 
nation and  horror,  that  he  was  to  be  chief  witness  against  the  sheep- 
stealer.  Mr.  Evans’s  steward  knew  well  the  meaning  of  the  words 
he  had  heard  him  say  in  the  cabin,  and  that  if  compelled  to  swear 
all  he  was  aware  of,  no  doubt  would  exist  of  the  criminality  of 
Michaul  in  the  eyes  of  the  jury.  “ ’Tis  a sthrange  thing  to  ax  a 
father  to  do,”  muttered  Peery  more  than  once,  as  he  proceeded  to 
the  magistrate’s  ; “ it’s  a very  sthrange  thing.” 

The  magistrate  proved  to  be  humane  man.  Notwithstanding  the 
zeal  of  the  steward  and  the  policemen,  he  committed  Michaul  for 
trial  without  continuing  to  press  the  hesitating  and  bewildered  old 
Peery  into  any  detailed  evidence ; his  nature  seemed  to  rise  against 
the  task,  and  he  said  to  the  steward,  “l  have  enough  of  facts  for 
making  out  a committal ; if  you  think  the  father  will  be  necessary 
on  the  trial,  subpoena  him.” 

The  steward  objected  that  Peery  would  abscond,  and  demanded 
to  have  him  bound  over  to  prosecute,  on  two  sureties,  solvent  and 
respectable.  The  magistrate  assented  ; Peery  could  name  no  bail ; 
and  consequently  he  also  was  marched  to  prison,  though  prohibited 
from  holding  the  least  intercourse  with  Michaul. 

The  assizes  soon  came  on.  Michaul  was  arraigned ; and  during 
his  plea  of  ‘ e not  guilty  ” his  father  appeared,  unseen  by  him,  in  the 
jailer’s  custody,  at  the  back  of  the  dock,  or  rather  in  an  inner  dock. 
The  trial  excited  a keen  and  painful  interest  in  the  court,  the  bar, 
the  jury-box,  and  the  crowds  of  spectators.  It  was  universally 
known  that  a son  had  stolen  a sheep,  partly  to  feed  a starving  father, 
and  that  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  father  it  was  now  sought  to  con- 
demn him.  “ What  will  the  old  man  do  ? ” was  the  general  ques- 
tion which  ran  through  the  assembly.  And  while  few  of  the  lower 
orders  could  contemplate  the  possibility  of  his  swearing  the  truth, 
many  of  their  betters  scarce  hesitated  to  make  out  for  him  a case 
of  natural  necessity  of  swearing  falsely. 


John  Banim. 


429 

The  trial  began.  The  first  witness,  the  herdsman,  proved  the  loss 
of  the  sheep  and  the  finding  the  dismembered  carcass  in  the  old 
barn.  The  policeman  and  the  steward  followed  to  the  same  effect, 
and  the  latter  added  the  allusions  which  he  had  heard  the  father 
make  to  the  son  upon  the  morning  of  the  arrest  of  the  latter. 
The  steward  went  down  from  the  table.  Thel*e  was  a pause  and 
complete  silence,  which  the  attorney  for  the  prosecution  broke  by 
saying  to  the  crier  deliberately,  “Call  Pcery  Carroll.” 

“ Here,  sir,”  immediately  answered  Peery,  as  the  jailer  led  him 
by  a side-door  out  of  the  back  dock  to  the  table.  The  prisoner 
started  round,  but  the  new  witness  against  him  had  passed  for  an 
instant  into  the  crowd. 

The  next  instant  old  Peery  was  seen  ascending  the  table,  assisted 
by  the  jailer  and  by  many  other  commiserating  hands  near  him. 
Every  glance  fixed  on  his  face.  The  barristers  looked  wistfully  up 
from  their  seats  round  the  table ; the  judge  put  a glass  to  his  eye 
and  seemed  to  study  his  features  attentively.  Among  the  audience 
there  ran  a low  but  expressive  murmur  of  pity  and  interest. 

Though  much  emaciated  by  confinement,  anguish,  and  suspense, 
Peery’s  cheeks  had  a flush  and  his  weak  blue  eyes  glittered.  The 
half-gaping  expression  of  his  parched  and  haggard  lips  was  misera- 
ble to  see.  Yet  he  did  not  tremble  much  nor  appear  so  confounded 
as  upon  the  day  of  his  visit  to  the  magistrate. 

The  moment  he  stood  upright  on  the  table  he  turned,  himself 
fully  to  the  judge,  without  a glance  towards  the  dock. 

“ Sit  down,  sit  down,  poor  man,”  said  the  judge. 

“Thanks  to  you,  my  lord,  I will,”  answered  Peery,  “only  first 
I’d  ax  you  to  let  me  kneel  for  a little  start.  ” 

He  accordingly  did  kneel,  and  after  bowing  his  head  and  forming 
the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his  forehead,  he  looked  up  and  said:  “ My 
Judge  in  heaven  above,  ’tis  you  I pray  to  keep  me  in  my  duty  afore 
my  earthly  judge  this  day.  Amen  !”  Then,  repeating  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  he  seated  himself. 

The  examination  of  the  witness  commenced,  and  humanely  pro- 
ceeded as  follows  (the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  taking  no  notice 
of  the  superfluity  of  Peery’s  answers) : 

“ Do  you  know  Michaul  or  Michael  Carroll,  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar  ? ” 

“ Afore  that  night,  sir,  I believed  I knew  him  well — every 
thought  of  his  mind,  every  bit  of  the  heart  in  his  body.  Afore 


430 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland'. 


that  night  no  living  crature  could  throw  a word  at  Michaul  Car- 
roll,  or  say  he  ever  forgot  his  father’s  rearin’  or  his  love  of  his  good 
God.  Sure  the  people  are  afther  tellin’  you  by  this  time  how  it 
came  about  that  night ; an’,  my  lord,  an’  ye  gintlemen,  an’  all  good 
Christians  that  hear  me,  here  I am  to  help  to  hang  him,  my  own 
boy,  and  my  only  one.  But  for  all  that,  gintlemen,  ye  ought  to  think 
of  it.  ’Twas  for  the  weenoch  and  the  ould  father  that  he  done  it. 
Indeed  an’  ’deed,  we  hadn’t  a pyatee  in  the  place,  and  the  sickness 
was  among  us  a start  afore ; it  took  the  wife  from  him  an’  another 
baby,  an’  id  had  himself  down  a week  or  so  beforehand  ; an’  all  that 
day  he  was  looking  for  work,  but  couldn’t  get  a hand’s  turn  to  do. 
An’  that’s  the  way  it  was.  Not  a mouthful  for  me  an’  little  Peery. 
More  betoken,  he  grew  sorry  for  id  in  the  mornin’,  and  promised 
me  not  to  touch  a scrap  of  what  was  in  the  barn — ay,  long  afore  the 
steward  an’  the  peelers  came  on  us — but  was  willin’  to  go  among  the 
neighbors  an’  beg  our  breakfast,  along  wid  myself,  from  door  to 
door,  sooner  than  touch  it.” 

“ It  is  my  painful  duty,”  resumed  the  barrister,  when  Peery 
would  at  length  cease,  “ to  ask  you  for  closer  information.  You 
saw  Michael  Carroll  in  the  barn  that  night  ? ” 

“ Musha — the  Lord  pity  him  an’  me  ! — I did,  sir.” 

“ Doing  what  ? ” 

“ The  sheep  between  his  hands,”  answered  Peery,  dropping  his 
head  and  speaking  almost  inaudibly. 

“ I must  still  give  you  pain,  I fear.  Stand  up,  take  the  crier’s 
rod,  and  if  you  see  Michael  Carroll  in  court  lay  it  on  his  head.” 

“ Och,  musha , musha , sir,  don’t  ax  me  to  do  that!”  pleaded 
Peery,  rising,  wringing  his  hands,  and,  for  the  first  time,  weeping. 
“ Och,  don’t,  my  lord,  don’t,  and  may  your  own  judgment  be  favor- 
able the  last  day  ! ” 

“ I am  sorry  to  command  you  to  do  it,  witness,  but  you  must 
take  the  rod,”  answered  the  judge,  bending  his  head  close  to  his 
notes  to  hide  his  own  tears.  At  the  same  time  many  a veteran  bar- 
rister rested  his  forehead  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  In  the  body  of 
the  court  were  heard  sobs. 

“ Michaul,  avich!  Michaul,  a corra-ma-chree  ! ” exclaimed  Peery, 
when  at  length  lie  took  the  rod,  and  faced  around  to  his  son.  “Is 
id  your  father  they  make  to  do  it,  ma-bouchal  ? ” 

“My  father  does  what  is  right,”  answered  Michaul  in  Irish. 

The  judge  immediately  asked  to  have  his  words  translated,  and 


John  Banim . 43 1 

when  he  learned  their  import,  regarded  the  prisoner  with  satis- 
faction. 

“ We  rest  here,  my  lord,”  said  the  counsel,  with  the  air  of  a man 
freed  from  a painful  task. 

The  judge  instantly  turned  to  the  jury-box  : “ Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  stole  the  sheep  in  question  there 
can  be  no  shade  of  moral  doubt ; but  you  have  a very  peculiar  case 
to  consider.  A son  steals  a sheep  that  his  own  famishing  father 
and  his  own  famishing  son  may  have  food.  His  aged  parent  is 
compelled  to  give  evidence  against  him  here  for  the  act.  The  old 
man  virtuously  tells  the  whole  truth  before  you  and  me.  He  sacri- 
fices his  natural  feelings — and  we  have  seen  that  they  are  lively — 
to  his  honesty  and  to  his  religious  sense  of  the  sacred  obligations  of 
an  oath.  Gentlemen,  I will  pause  to  observe  that  the  old  man’s 
conduct  is  strikingly  exemplary,  and  even  noble.  It  teaches  all  of 
us  a lesson.  Gentlemen,  it  is  not  within  the  province  of  a judge  to 
censure  the  rigor  of  the  proceedings  which  have  sent  him  before  us  ; 
but  I venture  to  anticipate  your  pleasure  that,  notwithstanding  all 
the  evidence  given,  you  will  be  enabled  to  acquit  the  old  man’s  son, 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  I have  said  there  cannot  be  the  shade  of  a 
moral  doubt  that  he  has  stolen  the  sheep,  and  I repeat  the  words  ; 
but,  gentlemen,  there  is  a legal  doubt,  to  the  full  benefit  of  which 
he  is  entitled.  The  sheep  has  not  been  identified.  The  herdsman 
could  not  venture  to  identify  it  (and  it  would  have  been  strange  if 
he  could)  from  the  dismembered  limbs  found  in  the  barn.  To  his 
mark  on  its  skin,  indeed,  he  might  have  positively  spoken  ; but  no 
skin  has  been  discovered.  Therefore,  according  to  the  evidence — 
and  you  have  sworn  to  decide  by  that  alone — the  prisoner  is  entitled 
to  your  acquittal.  Possibly,  now  that  the  prosecutor  sees  the  case 
in  its  full  bearing,  he  may  be  pleased  with  this  result.” 

While  the  jury,  in  evident  satisfaction,  prepared  to  return  their 
verdict,  Mr.  Evans,  who  had  but  a moment  before  returned  home, 
entered  the  court,  and,  becoming  aware  of  the  concluding  words  of 
the  judge,  expressed  his  sorrow  aloud  that  the  prosecution  had  ever 
been  undertaken  ; that  circumstances  had  kept  him  uninformed  of 
it,  though  it  had  gone  on  in  his  name.  And  he  begged  leave  to  as- 
sure his  lordship  that  it  would  be  his  future  effort  to  keep  Michaul 
Carroll  in  his  former  path  of  honesty  by  finding  him  honest  and 
ample  employment,  and,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  to  reward  the  virtue 
of  the  old  father. 


432  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

While  Peery  Carroll  was  laughing  and  crying  in  a breath  in  the 
arms  of  his  delivered  son,  a subscription  commenced  by  the  bar 
was  mounting  into  a considerable  sum  for  his  advantage. 


LETTERS  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 

LETTER  TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

Dublin,  May  10,  1820. 

My  dear  Michael:  The  health  that  I enjoy  is  wonderful  to 
myself.  Do  not  be  so  fearful  on  my  account.  You  that  stay  at 
home  and  are  very  happy  have  many  superfluous  apprehensions 
about  a younger  son  or  brother  who  roves  about  a little. 

Be  assured  of  this,  my  dear  and  only  friends,  almost  the  sole 
thing  that  sends  the  blood  to  my  heart  or  the  tear  to  my  eye  is  the 
recollection,  now  and  then,  that  I am  parted  from  you  ; but  this 
gives  me  greater  strength  for  the  struggle  to  get  back — and  back 
I will  return,  if  God  spares  me  life,  and  we  will  spend  and  end  our 
days  together. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

Dublin,  May  18,  1820. 

My  dear  Michael:  You  speak  very  gloomily  on  the  uncertainty 
of  my  means  if  I go  to  London.  Don’t  let  your  fear  affect  you  so 
keenly.  I have  not  found  a crock  of  gold,  nor  has  a prize  in  the 
lottery  turned  up  for  me  ; but,  with  Heaven’s  help,  I shall  not  want 
means.  Yo  man  of  ordinary  talents  wants  them  in  London,  with 
proper  conduct  and  half  the  introductions  I hold.  Say  I possess  no 
talent — this  you  will  not  say  ; it  would  not  be  what  you  feel — I have 
a consciousness  of  possessing  some  powers,  and,  situated  as  I am, 
it  is  not  vanity  to  say  so.  I have  health,  hope,  energy,  and  good- 
humor,  and  I trust  in  the  Lord  God  for  the  rest. 

I know  not  how  long  I could  fast ; even  this  I may  be  called  on 
to  try.  I have  been  the  best  part  of  two  days  without  tasting  food 
of  late.  Often  have  I gone  to  whistle  for  my  dinner,  and  once  I 
walked  about  the  town  during  the  night  for  want  of  a bed.  I see 
you  start  at  this.  I can  assure  you,  without  affectation,  it  has 


John  Banim . 


433 


amused  me,  and  I thrive  on  it.  I am  fatter  and  better-looking 
than  when  you  saw  me.  At  the  present  time  I am  comparatively 
rich,  and  go  so  high  as  tenpence  for  my  dinner,  and  a goodly  plate 
of  beef  and  vegetables  it  is. 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

Dublin,  October  12,  1820. 

My  dear  Father  : When  difficulties  pressed  most  upon  me,  I 
determined  to  wage  war  with  them  manfully ; I called  on  my  own 
mind,  and  put  its  friendship  for  me  to  the  proof.  In  the  midst  of 
occasionally  using  my  pencil,  of  newspaper  scribbling  and  reporting, 
and  surrounded  by  privation,  and  almost  every  evil  but  bad  health, 
I manufactured  some  hundreds  of  verses,  with  notes  appending, 
which  I called  “ Ossian’s  Paradise.” 

I handed  “ Ossian’s  Paradise”  to  a friend,  an  eminent  poet, 
celebrated  orator,  and  lawyer.  He  showed  it  to  a friend  of  his,  a 
Mr.  Curran,  who  introduced  it  to  Lord  Cloncurry.  It  pleased  both. 
It  was  subsequently  submitted  to  the  greatest  writer  of  the  age, 
Scott.  His  judgment  was  : “It  is  a poem  possessing  imagination 
in  a high  degree,  often  much  beauty  of  language,  with  a consider- 
able command  of  numbers  and  metre.”  This  opinion  was  accom- 
panied by  a candid  criticism  on  particular  portions,  with  a view  to 
its  success  when  published. 

“ Ossian’s  Paradise”  is  to  be  published  by  Mr.  Warren,  of  Bond 
Street,  London.  I am  to  receive  £20  within  a month,  with  fifty 
copies  to  dispose  of  on  my  own  account.  If  it  runs  to  a second 
edition,  £10  more.  These  terms  my  friend  before  mentioned,  Mr. 
Shiel,  thinks  advantageous. 

My  dear  Father,  do  not  blame  me  for  not  communicating  this 
matter  in  its  progress.  I will  explain  my  motive.  My  failures 
hitherto  had  given  to  all  of  you  at  home  quite  enough  of  uneasiness, 
and  I wished  to  have  a rational  probability  of  success  in  view  before 
I should  excite  your  interest.  If  I failed,  I had  determined  to  be 
silent  on  the  affair  to  you,  my  mother,  and  Michael,  and  to  all  the 
world  besides. 

Do  me  the  favor,  my  dear  Sir,  of  requesting  Michael  to  read  this 


434  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

letter  for  my  old  schoolmaster,  Mr.  Buchanan,  and  fill  your  glass 
in  the  evening  to  the  success  of  “ Ossian’s  Paradise,’’  when  you 
three  are  seated  round  the  little  octagon  table  in  your  own  sanctum 
sanctorum.  And  my  own  dearest  mother,  perhaps  she  may  have  cause 
to  think  more  respectably  than  was  her  wont  of  my  rhyming  pro- 
pensities. Believe  me  your  most  affectionate  son, 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

Dublin,  November  30,  1820. 

My  dear  Father  : I am  employed  for  another  and  larger  work, 
which,  in  case  of  the  success  of  the  present,  Mr.  Warren  promises 
to  give  me  a fair  price  for.  I am  not  flattered  into  anything  like 
sanguine  hope.  I will  continue  to  do  my  best.  If  I succeed,  I will 
thank  God  ; if  I fail,  it  may  be  for  the  better,  and  I will  thank  Him 
then  also. 

In  remembering  me  to  my  dearest  mother  and  to  Joanna,  say 
that  I thank  them  for  their  present.  They  have  knitted  me  a fine 
lot  of  stockings  indeed,  which  fit  me  excellently  well,  and  to  all 
.appearance  they  are  everlasting. 

With  love  to  all  at  home,  I am,  as  ever, 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  FATHER  AND  MOTHER. 

London,  7 Amelia  Place,  1 

Fulham  Road,  March  30,  1822.  ] 

My  dear  Father  and  Mother:  We 15  got  into  London  on  Mon- 
day evening.  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  and  Thursday  we  spent  lodging- 
hunting. We  settled  here  yesterday.  We  are  pleasantly  situated  as 
regards  accommodation,  and  when  I retire  to  the  back  drawing-room, 
which  I have  fixed  upon  for  my  study,  I am  as  quiet  as  if  I were  in 
a wood. 

Exclusive  of  the  convenience  I enjoy,  there  is  a charm  attached 
to  my  abode  that  recommended  it  to  me  above  all  others.  I breathe 
the  very  air  of  inspiration  : I sit  in  the  same  chair,  I lounge  on  the 


12  Himself  and  his  wife. 


John  Banim . 


435 


same  sofa,  and  I think,  read,  and  write  in  the  very  study  where 
John  Philpot  Curran  sat,  lounged,  and  thought. 

Four  years  of  the  latter  part  of  this  great  man’s  life  were  spent 
in  the  rooms  I now  occupy.  Ilis  thoughts  even  yet,  perhaps,  float 
about  my  little  study ; and  when  I lock  the  door  and  sit  down,  I 
almost  imagine  I can  get  them  into  a corner  and  make  them  my  own. 

Ever  truly  and  lovingly  your  devoted  son, 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

London,  May  2,  1824. 

My  dear  Michael:  I have  read  attentively,  and  with  the  great- 
est pleasure,  the  portion  of  the  tale  you  sent  me  by  J.  II . So 

far  as  it  goes,  I pronounce  that  you  have  been  successful.  Here  and 
there  I have. marked  such  particular  criticisms  as  struck  me,  and 
those  you  may  note  by  referring  to  the  margin.  I send  you  the 
MSS.  of  my  tale,  and  I request  your  severest  criticisms  ; scratch  out 
and  condemn  at  your  pleasure.  This  is  the  first  copy.  Looking 
over  it,  I perceive  many  parts  that  are  bad  ; send  it  back  when  you 
can  with  every  suggestion  you  are  capable  of  making.  Read  it  over 
for  the  whole  family  in  solemn  conclave.  Let  Father,  Mother,  Joanna, 
and  yourself  sit  in  judgment  on  it,  and  send  me  all  your  opinions 
sincerely  given.  I have  met  some  eminent  literary  characters  lately, 
and  many  of  whom  I had  formed  high  notions  fall  far  short  of  my 
expectations. 

I will  say  no  more  about  these,  and  at  your  peril  keep  my  gossip 
to  yourself.  Hap  ! hap  ! it  is  dangerous  to  meddle  with  edged 
tools  ; a chip  from  an  angry  homme  de  lettres 13  would  cut  deep. 

I have  had  opportunities  for  coming  into  close  contact  with 
Geoffrey  Crayon.14  He  is  as  natural  as  his  sketches,  a man  who 
would  play  with  a child  on  the  carpet,  and  one  of  the  few  litterateurs 
I have  known  whose  face  and  character  are  in  sincere  keeping  with 
his  talents. 

Believe  me,  dear  Michael,  ever  yours, 

John  Banim. 


18  A literary  man. 

14  This  -was  the  nom  deplume  of  Washington  Irving.  We  are  pleased  to  see  the  gifted 
and  warm-hearted  Banim  praising  our  gifted,  gentle,  and  graceful  Irving,  the  American 
master  of  English  prose. 


436 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, ' 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

London,  April  6,  1825. 

My  dear  Michael  : Our  tales  have  not  been  announced  in  the 
usual  manner,  and  I will  tell  you  why. 

A certain  literary  gentleman,  an  Irishman,  too,  of  undoubted 
talent,  being  aware  of  the  nature  of  our  volumes,  started  with  a 
spirited  publisher  and  got  out  notices,  and  it  became  rather  an 
amusing  race  between  us.  He  would  come  occasionally,  in 
the  most  friendly  manner,  to  hope  I was  going  on  well.  Pen 
against  pen  it  was,  as  fast  as  they  could  gallop.  Mounted  on  my 
grey  goose  quill,  I have  beaten  him,  as  to  time  at  all  events.  It  was 
necessary  to  keep  him  in  the  dark  by  leaving  our  books  unan- 
nounced. What  may  be  the  further  result  of  our  race  is  yet  to  be 
seen.  There  is  quackery  in  all  trades,  from  the  boudoir  to  the 
pill-box. 

I purpose  to  be  in  Derry,15  two  hundred  miles  north  of  you,  in  a 
few  weeks,  and  in  some  time  after  I will  run  down  to  Kilkenny  to 
shake  hands  with  you  all,  and  to  hear  my  poor  mother  call  me  her 
own  “ graw  lawn  ” 16  once  again. 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

Coleraine,  May  28,  1825. 

My  dear  Michael  : Lest  you  should  be  uneasy  at  my  staying 
longer  than  I proposed,  I write  to  say  I am  well  and  have  only  been' 
delayed  by  the  uninterrupted  interest  of  my  route  from  Belfast.17 
I walked  a great  part  of  the  way  along  the  coast  to  this  town ; hav- 
ing forwarded  all  my  baggage,  trusting  to  Him  who  feeds  the  spar- 
row and  the  raven  for  a meal  and  a bed.  My  adventures  have  been 
considerable  in  the  way  of  living  alone.  I sometimes  slept  in  a 
sheebeen  house,  sometimes  in  a farmer’s  house,  and  sometimes  in  a 
good  inn  ; and  only  I thought  myself  too  ill-dressed  a fellow,  I might 
have  shared  the  hospitality  of  a certain  lady  of  high  rank. 

But  what  scenery  have  I beheld  ! grand,  exquisite  ! the  Cause- 
way, from  which  I have  just  returned,  the  best  part  of  it.  You 
may  look  out  for  me  towards  the  end  of  next  week.  One  thing  is 

16  Londonderry.  16  A term  of  endearment. 

17  It  was  on  this  journey  that  Banim  oollected  the  materials  for  his  excellent  historic 
story  of  “ The  Boyne  Water.” 


John  Banim.  43  7 

certain,  I will  meet  a hearty  welcome  at  the  old  house  where  I first 
saw  the  light. 

Dear  Michael,  ever  yours, 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

London,  November  6,  1825. 

My  dear  Michael  : With  this  you  will  receive  the  first  volume 
of  “ The  Boyne  Water.”  I expect  it  to  go  to  press  in  a month  from 
this  day,  so  read  it  immediately,  and  return  it  as  promptly  as  you 
can. 

Be  very  candid  in  your  remarks  ; because  I ought  to  be  made  to 
know  myself  ; and  don’t  you  at  least,  through  a false  delicacy,  let  me 
lead  myself  astray  ; every  man’s  vanity  blinds  himself,  to  himself,  of 
himself. 

This  morning  (Sunday),  accompanying  Ellen  18  to  Communion, 
I was  delighted  with  the  fair  and  beautiful  sight  of  a crowd  of  other 
communicants  of  every  rank  and  age  clustering  to  the  sanctuary. 
Some  old  Chelsea  pensioners  were  there ; the  lame,  the  blind,  and  the 
tottering ; and  there  were  boys  and  girls  of  very  tender  age  mixed 
with  these  infirm  old  men.  Leaning  down  to  minister  the  bread 
of  comfort  and  of  life  to  those  stumblers  on  the  grave’s  brink,  and 
those  young  adventurers  on  a world  of  temptation,  was  a most  reve- 
rend-looking priest,  with  long  white  hairs,  who,  to  my  knowledge, 
is  one  of  the  most  zealous,  virtuous,  simple-minded  men  alive. 

My  dear  Michael,  as  I looked  on,  the  recollection  of  our  first  Com- 
munion together  side  by  side,  and  of  the  devotion  and  holy  awe  that 
filled  my  heart  at  the  time  ; and  the  remembrance  of  the  aged  and 
benevolent  parish  priest  bending  down  to  us  with  the  Sacrament  in 
his  fingers  came  refreshingly  to  me,  like  the  draught  of  a pure  spring ; 
and  a long  train  of  innocent  days  and  blissful  times  passed  before 
me,  with  my  thoughts  recurrent  to  boyhood. 

Your  devoted  brother, 

John  Banim. 


LETTER  TO  GERALD  GRIFFIN. 

Seven  Oaks,  May  27,  1828. 

My  dear  Griffin:  I see  you  lead  the  way.  Be  assured  that 
your  last,  of  April  22,  gives  me  heartfelt  pleasure.  My  old  harp  of 

38  Mrs.  Banim. 


43 S The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

a heart  has  a string  restored  to  it.  I accept  your  invitation  not  to 
allow  anything  that  may  occur  in  letters  between  us  to  start  a doubt 
in  future  of  your  friendship  or  character.  Let  me  add  my  own 
covenant.  When  we  meet,  treat  me  more  bluntly,  oif-handedly,  and 
talkatively  than  you  have  done.  I am  now  sure  that  an  unlucky 
difficulty  hitherto  regulated  (or  rather  disarranged)  your  social  man- 
ner. However,  1 shall  be  happier  with  you  if  amongst  your  other  re- 
cent changes  you  have  acquired  a knack  of  treating  a friend  differ- 
ently, and  I close  this  topic  by  protesting  against  your  supposing 
that  I here  mean  an  iota  which  does  not  meet  your  eyes. 

I envy  your  life  in  poor  Ireland.  My  health  has  been  bad  since  I 
saw  you  ; I nearly  lost  the  use  of  my  limbs,  but  can  now  limp  about 
on  a stick. 

I write  you  a short  and  hasty  letter.  Till  this  day,  since  I had 
the  great  pleasure  of  receiving  your  last,  I have  been  very  busy,  and 
ill  enough  into  the  bargain,  and  this  morning  I start  with  Mrs. 
Banim  to  make  a long-promised  visit  to  the  Rev.  James  Dunn. 
Pray  write  soon,  and  believe  me  your  affectionate  friend, 

John  Banim, 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

Boulogne,  May  2,  1830. 

My  dear  Michael  : I am  now  a paralyzed  man,  walking  with 
much  difficulty.  I move  slowly  and  cautiously,  assisted  by  a stick 
and  any  good  person’s  arm  charitable  enough  to  aid  me.  It  is  not 
to  add  to  your  trouble  that  I thus  describe  myself  ; I only  tell  you 
to  prepare  you  at  home  for  the  change.  I look  well,  and  my  spirit 
is  yet  uncrippled.  Go  to  my  Mother’s  bedside  as  soon  as  you  re- 
ceive this  and  say  what  you  can  for  me.  I think  that  she  need  not 
know  that  I am  so  lame. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

John  Banim. 


to  his  brother. 

Boulogne,  July  4,  1830. 

My  dear  Brother  : You  will  naturally  ask  yourself,  “ Why  has 
not  John  written?”  Dear  Michael,  I could  not,  and  I have  no 


John  Banzm. 


439 


explanation — only  I could  not.  And  now  I have  not  a single  word 
to  the  purpose  to  say,  although,  after  a fortnight’s  silence,  I do 
write.  The  blow  has  not  yet  left  me  master  of  myself.  A blow, 
indeed,  it  was.  Your  letter  was  suddenly  thrust  into  my  hand,  and 
the  color  of  the  wax  told  me  at  a glance  that  my  Mother  had  left 
me.  I fell  to  the  ground  without  having  opened  it.  I anticipated 
the  contents. 

You  tell  me  to  be  tranquil.  It  is  in  vain.  I never  felt  anguish  be- 
fore. Yet  it  is  true  that  the  spiritualized  lot  of  our  Mother  is  a 
grand  consolation  ; so  also  is  the  certainty  that  she  died  in  the  arms 
of  those  she  loved,  and  who  loved  her. 

Not  a very  long  time  shall  elapse,  if  I live,  till  we  meet  in  Kil- 
kenny. My  wanderings,  with  God’s  leave,  must  end  there. 

Ever,  dear  Michael,  your  loving  and  devoted  brother, 

John  Banim. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER. 

Paris,  April  30,  1835. 

Dear  Michael:  What  I require  is  this:  I must  have  a little 
garden — not  overlooked,  for  with  eyes  on  me  I could  not  enjoy  it. 
Herein  paths  to  be,  or  afterwards  so  formed,  as  to  enable  three  per- 
sons to  walk  abreast.  If  not  paths,  grass-plats  formed  out  of  its 
beds ; for  with  the  help  of  your  neck  or  arm,  dear  Michael,  I want 
to  try  and  put  my  limbs  under  me.  This  is  the  reason  for  my  last, 
and  to  you,  perhaps,  strange,  request ; but  indeed  there  is  a reason 
connected  with  my  bodily  and  mental  state  for  all  the  previous 
matters  to  be  sought  for  in  my  contemplated  abode,  and  which  I 
have  so  minutely  particularized. 

If  possible,  I wish  my  little  house  to  have  a sunny  aspect ; sun 
into  all  possible  windows  every  day  that  the  glorious  material  god 
shines.  I am  a shivering  being,  and  require  and  rejoice  in  his  in- 
vigorating rays  as  does  the  drooping,  sickly  plant. 

If  this  little  house  could  be  within  view  of  our  Nore  stream,  along 
the  bank  of  which  you  and  I have  so  often  bounded,  but  along 
which  I shall  never  bound  again,  it  would  enhance  my  pleasure. 

I will  begin  to  go  home  the  10th  of  next  month  (May).  Travel- 
ling is  to  me  a most  expensive  and  tedious  process.  Every 


440 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


league  of  the  road  will  take  a shackle  off  me.  My  mind  is  fixed  on 
a little  sunny  nook  in  Kilkenny,  where  I may  set  myself  down  and 
die  easily,  or  live  a little  longer  as  happily  as  I can. 

Until  we  meet,  believe  me,  my  dear  Michael, 

Your  most  affectionate  brother, 

John  Banim. 


THOMAS  DAVIS. 


“ I remember  with  what  startled  enthusiasm  I would  arise  from  reading  Davis’s 
* Poems  ’ ; and  it  would  seem  to  me  that  before  my  young  eyes  I saw  the  dash  of 
the  Brigade  at  Fontenoy  ; it  would  seem  to  me  as  if  my  young  ears  were  filled 
with  the  shout  that  resounded  at  the  Yellow  Ford  and  Benburb — the  war-cry  of 
the  Red  Hand — as  the  English  hosts  were  swept  away,  and,  like  snow  under  the 
beams  of  the  rising  sun,  melted  before  the  Irish  onset.” — Y.  Rev.  Father 
Burke,  O.P. 

“ It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  this  man’s  genius,  acquirements,  and  extraor- 
dinary talents,  or  his  brilliant  services  to  Ireland.  He  has,  I will  venture  to  say, 
given  a new  impulse  to  the  minds  of  Ireland,  invested  Irish  literature  with  a 
classic  dignity,  and  adorned  it  with  a classic  grace,  bringing  to  its  cultivation 
and  development  a mind  imbued  with  philosophy,  history,  science,  art,  poetry, 
and  warmed  by  a heart  charged  with  an  enthusiastic  love  of  freedom.” — Mooney. 

THOMAS  DAVIS  was  born  in  the  year  1814,  in  the  famous  little 
town  of  Mallow,1  on  the  Blackwater,  in  the  county  of  Cork. 
“ Amongst  the  hills  of  Munster,”  writes  John  Mitchel,  “on  the 
banks  of  Ireland’s  most  beauteous  river,  the  Avondheu — Spencer’s 
Auinduff — and  amidst  a simple  people  who  yet  retained  most  of  the 
venerable  usages  of  the  olden  time — their  wakes  and  funeral  caoines , 
their  wedding  merrymakings  and  simple  hospitality,  with  a hundred 
thousand  welcomes — he  imbibed  that  passionate  and  deep  love,  not 
for  the  people  only,  but  for  the  very  soil,  rocks,  woods,  waters,  and 
skies  of  his  native  land,  which  gives  to  his  writings,  both  in  prose 
and  poetry,  their  chief  value  and  charm.”  2 

After  a good  preliminary  training,  Davis  entered  Trinity  College, 
Dublin.  As  a student,  he  was  a quiet,  hard  worker,  who  did  not 
confine  himself  merely  to  the  text-books  of  the  university.  “ There- 
fore,” says  Mitchel,  “he  was  not  a dull,  plodding  blockhead,  ‘pre- 
mium-man.’ He  came  through  the  course  creditably  enough,  but 
without  distinction.” 

Slowly  his  rich  intellect  developed.  His  latent  abilities  were  un- 
known even  to  himself.  He  spent  his  fresh,  young  days  in  storing 
his  mind  and  training  his  heart,  and  when  he  devoted  both  to  the 

1 Mallow  is  the  birthplace  of  the  venerable  Archbishop  Purcell,  the  eminent  historian, 
Dr.  E.  B.  O’Callaghan,  and  several  other  distinguished  men. 
a “ Introduction  to  the  ‘Poems  ’ of  Davis.” 

441 


442 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


lofty  service  of  his  country,  the  world  beheld  in  him  a full  man — a 
true,  warm-hearted  Irishman  of  splendid  gifts. 

“ During  his  college  course,”  writes  Wallis,  his  friend  and  com- 
rade, “and  for  some  years  after,  while  he  was  very  generally  liked, 
he  had,  unless  perhaps  with  some  who  knew  him  intimately,  but  a 
moderate  reputation  of  any  kind.  In  his  twenty-fifth  year,  as  I re- 
member— in  the  spring  of  1839 — he  first  began  to  break  out  of  this. 
His  opinions  began  to  have  weight,  and  his  character  and  influence 
to  unfold  themselves  in  a variety  of  ways.  In  the  following  year  he 
entered  political  life. 

“ The  outbreak  of  his  poetical  power  began  in  this  wise  : In  the 
autumn  of  1842,  taking  an  active  part  in  the  establishment  of  a 
new  popular  journal — the  Nation — which  was  intended  to  advance 
the  cause  of  nationality  by  all  the  aids  which  literary  as  well  as  poli- 
tical talent  could  bring  to  its  advocacy,  Davis,  and  the  friends  asso- 
ciated with  him,  found  that  while  their  corps  in  other  respects  was 
sufficiently  complete,  they  had  but  scanty  promise  of  support  in  the 
poetical  department.  Davis  and  his  companions  resolved,  in  default 
of  other  aids,  to  wrrite  the  poetry  themselves.  They  did  so  ; they 
surprised  themselves,  and  everybody  else. 

“The  rapidity  and  thrilling  power  with  which,  from  the  time  that 
he  got  full  access  to  the  public  ear,  Davis  developed  his  energies  as 
statesman,  political  writer,  and  poet  excited  the  surprise  and  admira- 
tion even  of  those  who  knew  him  best,  and  won  the  respect  of  num- 
bers who,  from  political  or  personal  prejudices,  had  been  originally 
most  unwilling  to  admit  his  worth. 

“ No  power  is  so  overwhelming,  no  energy  so  untiring,  no  enthusi- 
asm so  indomitable  as  that  which  slumbers  for  years,  unconscious 
and  unsuspected,  until  the  character  is  completely  formed,  and  then 
bursts  at  once  into  light  and  life  when  the  time  for  action  is  come.” 

Equal  to.  any  emergency  was  the  genius  of  Davis.  The  labors  of 
a quarter  of  a century  he  crushed  into  three  short  years.  “ It  is 
not  detracting,”  writes  John  Mitchel,  “ from  any  man’s  just  claims 
to  assert,  what  all  admit,  that  he,  more  than  any  one  man,  inspired, 
created,  and  moulded  the  strong  national  feeling  that  possessed  the 
Irish  people  in  1843,  made  O’Connell  a true  uncrowned  king, 

‘ Placed  the  strength  of  all  the  land 
Like  a falchion  in  his  hand.’  ” 

In  the  following  year  Davis  gave  the  greater  portion  of  his  best 


Thomas  Davis. 


443 


poems  to  the  world.  Unhappily,  his  wise  and  patriotic  genius  was 
to  be  too  soon  dimmed  in  death.  He  died,  after  a brief  illness,  at 
his  mother’s  residence,  Dublin,  on  the  16th  of  September,  1845.  lie 
was  only  in  his  thirty-first  year.  His  grave  is  in  Mount  Jerome 
Cemetery,  and  there  rests  all  that  is  mortal  of  “ the  most  danger- 
ous foe  English  dominion  in  Ireland  has  had  in  our  generation.” 3 

What  Thomas  Davis  left  behind  him  is  but  a fragment  of  the 
man’s  real  greatness.  His  “ Poems”  and  “ Literary  and  Historical 
Essays  ” are  published  in  one  neat  volume  of  about  five  hundred 
pages.  Until  three  years  before  his  death  he  never  wrote  a line  of 
poetry.  Yet  his  glorious  quill  dashed  off  poems  that  will  endure 
as  long  as  the  English  language — poems  that  will  be  read  and 
admired  as  long  as  there  is  a man  of  the  Irish  race  alive.  His 
poetry  was  but  the  expression  of  his  own  manly  nature,  warm  heart, 
and  lofty  character.  It  came  from  the  heart.  It  finds  its  way  to 
the  heart.  It  has  the  true  ring  which  finds  an  echo  in  every 
soul  that  can  admire  the  brave  and  the  beautiful. 

Speaking  of  the  poetry  and  music  of  Ireland,  Father  Burke,  the 
wonderfully  eloquent  Dominican,  justly  remarks:  “ A hand  less  un- 
worthy came,  a hand  less  unworthy  than  Thomas  Moore’s,  a hand  more 
loyal  and  true  than  even  his  was,  when  in  Ireland’s  lays  appeared 
the  immortal  Thomas  Davis.  He  and  the  men  upon  whom  we  built 
up  our  hopes  for  Young  Ireland — he,  with  them,  seized  the  sad, 
silent  harp  of  Erin  and  sent  forth  another  thrill  in  the  invitation  to 
the  men  of  the  North  to  join  hands  with  their  Catholic  brethren — 
to  the  men  of  the  South  to  remember  the  ancient  glories  of  ‘ Brian 
the  Brave.’  To  the  men  of  Connaught  he  seemed  to  call  forth 
Roderick  O’Conor  from  his  grave  at  Clonmacnoise.  He  rallied  Ire- 
land in  that  year  so  memorable  for  its  hopes  and  for  the  blighting  of 
those  hopes.  He  and  the  men  of  the  Nation  did  what  this  world 
has  never  seen  in  the  same  space  of  time,  by  the  sheer  power  of  Irish 
genius,  by  the  sheer  strength  of  Young  Ireland’s  intellect;  the 
Nation  of  ’43  created  a national  poetry,  a national  literature,  which 
no  other  country  can  equal.  Under  the  magic  voices  and  pens  of 
these  men,  every  ancient  glory  stood  forth  again.  I remember  it  well ; 
I was  but  a boy  at  the  time,  but  I remember  with  what  startled 
enthusiasm  I would  arise  from  reading  ‘ Davis’s  Poems  ’ ; and  it 
would  seem  to  me  that  before  my  young  eyes  I saw  the  dash  of  the 
Brigade  at  Fontenoy  ; it  would  seem  to  me  as  if  my  young  ears  were 

3 John  Mitchel. 


444 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland \ 


filled  with  the  shout  that  resounded  at  the  Yellow  Ford  and  Ben- 
burb — the  war-cry  of  the  Bed  Hand — as  the  English  hosts  were 
swept  away,  and,  like  snow  under  the  beams  of  the  rising  sun, 
melted  before  the  Irish  onset.  The  dream  of  the  poet,  the  aspi- 
ration of  the  true  Irish  heart,  is  yet  unfulfilled.  But  remember 
that  there  is  something  sacred  in  the  poet’s  dream.  The  inspi- 
ration of  genius  is  second  only  to  the  inspiration  of  religion.  There 
is  something  sacred  and  infallible,  with  all  our  human  fallibility,  in 
the  hope  of  a nation  that  has  never  allowed  the  hope  of  freedom  to 
be  extinguished.”  4 

O’Connell  mourned  deeply  the  loss  of  Davis.  “ I cannot  expect,” 
wrote  the  aged  Liberator,  “ to  look  upon  his  like  again,  or  to  see 
the  place  he  has  left  vacant  adequately  filled  up.”  5 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  WORKS  OF  DAVIS. 

THE  BK1DE  OE  MALLOW. 

’Twas  dying  they  thought  her, 

And  kindly  they  brought  her, 

To  the  banks  of  Blackwater, 

Where  her  forefathers  lie. 

’Twas  the  place  of  her  childhood, 

And  they  hoped  that  its  wild  wood 
And  air  soft  and  mild  would 
. Soothe  her  spirit  to  die. 

But  she  met  on  its  border 
A lad  who  ador’d  her — 

No  rich  man  nor  lord,  or 
A coward  or  slave ; 

But  one  who  had  worn 
A green  coat,  and  borne 
A pike  from  Sliab  Mourne 
With  the  patriots  brave. 

Oh  ! the  banks  of  the  stream  are 
Than  emeralds  greener ; 

And  how  should  they  wean  her 


* “Lecture  on  the  National  Music  of  Ireland.” 
6 Nun  of  Kenmare’s  “ Life  of  Daniel  O’Connell. 


Thomas  Davis. 


445 


From  loving  the  earth, 

While  the  song-birds  so  sweet, 
And  the  waves  at  their  feet. 
And  each  young  pair  they  meet. 
Are  all  flushing  with  mirth. 

And  she  listed  his  talk, 

And  he  shar’d  in  her  walk. 

And  how  could  she  baulk 
One  so  gallant  and  true  ? 

But  why  tell  the  rest  ? 

Her  love  she  confest, 

And  sank  on  his  breast 
Like  the  eventide  dew. 

Ah  ! now  her  cheek  glows 
With  the  tint  of  the  rose, 

And  her  healthful  blood  flows 
Just  as  fresh  as  the  stream. 
And  her  eye  flashes  bright, 

And  her  footstep  is  light, 

And  sickness  and  blight 
Fled  away  like  a dream. 

And  soon  by  his  side 
She  kneels  a sweet  bride. 

In  maidenly  pride 
And  maidenly  fears. 

And  their  children  were  fair, 
And  their  home  knew  no  care, 
Save  that  all  homesteads  were 
Hot  as  happy  as  theirs. 


love’s  longings. 

To  the  conqueror  his  crowning, 
First  freedom  to  the  slave, 
And  air  unto  the  drowning 
Sunk  in  the  ocean’s  wave,, 


446  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

• 

And  succor  to  the  faithful 
Who  fight,  their  flag  above. 

Are  sweet  but  far  less  grateful 
Than  were  my  lady’s  love. 

I know  I am  not  worthy 
Of  one  so  young  and  bright, 

And  yet  I would  do  for  thee 
Far  more  than  others  might. 

I cannot  give  you  pomp  or  gold 
If  you  should  be  my  wife, 

But  I can  give  you  love  untold. 

And  true  in  death  or  life. 

Methinks  that  there  are  passions 
Within  that  heaving  breast 
To  scorn  their  heartless  fashions, 

And  wed  whom  you  love  best. 

Methinks  you  would  be  prouder 
As  the  struggling  patriot’s  bride, 

Than  if  rank  your  home  should  crowd,  or 
Cold  riches  round  you  glide. 

Oh  ! the  watcher  longs  for  morning, 

And  the  infant  cries  for  light. 

And  the  saint  for  heaven’s  warning, 

And  the  vanquished  pray  for  might ; 
But  their  prayer,  when  lowest  kneeling. 
And  their  suppliance  most  true, 

Are  cold  to  the  appealing 
Of  this  longing  heart  to  you. 


MY  LAND. 

She  is  a rich  and  rare  land ; 

Oh  ! she’s  a fresh  and  fair  land  ; 
She  is  a dear  and  rare  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 


Thomas  Davis . 


447 


No  men  than  hers  are  braver ; 
Her  women’s  hearts  ne’er  waver  ; 
I’d  freely  die  to  save  her, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

She’s  not  a dull  or  cold  land  ; 

No  ! she’s  a warm  and  bold  land, 
Oh  ! she’s  a true  and  old  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 

Could  beauty  ever  guard  her, 
And  virtue  still  reward  her, 

No  foe  would  cross  her  border, 
No  friend  within  it  pine. 

Oh  ! she’s  a fresh  and  fair  land  ; 
Oh  ! she’s  a true  and  rare  land ; 
Yes  ! she’s  a rare  and  fair  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 


A NATION  ONCE  AGAIN. 

When  boyhood’s  fire  was  in  my  blood, 

I read  of  ancient  freemen, 

For  Greece  and  Eome  who  bravely  stood. 
Three  hundred  men  and  three  men  ! 

And  then  I prayed  I yet  might  see 
Our  fetters  rent  in  twain, 

And  Ireland,  long  a province,  be 
A nation  once  again. 

And  from  that  time,  through  wildest  woe. 
That  hope  has  shone  a far  light ; 

Nor  could  love’s  brightest  summer  glow 
Outshine  that  solemn  starlight. 

It  seemed  to  watch  above  my  head 
In  forum,  field,  and  fane  ; 

Its  angel  voice  sang  round  my  bed  : 
e<  A nation  once  again.” 


44§ 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


It  whispered,  too,  that  “freedom’s  ark” 
And  service,  high  and  holy, 

Would  he  profan’d  by  feelings  dark 
And  passions  vain  or  lowly ; 

For  freedom  comes  from  God’s  right  hand, 
And  needs  a godly  train  ; 

And  righteous  men  must  make  our  land — 
A nation  once  again. 

So,  as  I grew  from  boy  to  man, 

I bent  me  to  that  bidding, 

My  spirit  of  each  selfish  plan 
And  cruel  passion  ridding  ; 

For  thus  I hoped  some  day  to  aid — 

Oh  ! can  such  hope  be  vain  ? — 

When  my  dear  country  should  he  made 
A nation  once  again . 


FONTENOT. 

Thrice,  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy,  the  English  column  railed, 
And,  twice,  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine  the  Dutch  in  vain  assail’d; 
For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking  battery, 
And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks  and  Dutch  auxiliary. 

As  vainly  through  De  Barri’s  Wood  the  British  soldiers  hurst, 
The  French  artillery  drove  them  back  diminished  and  dispersed. 
The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious  eye. 

And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance  to  try. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  generals  ride  ! 

And  mustering  came  his  chosen  troops,  like  clouds  at  eventide. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread, 

Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  Lord  Hay  is  at  their 
head. 

Steady  they  step  adown  the  slope,  steady  they  climb  the  hill ; 
Steady  they  load,  steady  they  fire,  moving  right  onward  still. 
Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a furnace-blast, 
Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade,  and  bullets  showering 
fast. 


Thomas  Davis . 


449 


And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rose  and  kept  their  course, 
With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve  that  mocked  at  hostile  force, 
Past  Fontenoy,  past  Fontenoy,  while  thinner  grow  their  ranks, 
They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland’s  ocean- 
banks. 

More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rush  round  ; 
As  stubble  to  the  lava-tide,  French  squadrons  strew  the  ground  ; 
Bombshell  and  grape  and  round-shot,  still  on  they  marched  and 
fired — 

Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 

“ Push  on,  my  Household  Cavalry  ! ” King  Louis  madly  cried  ; 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock — not  unrevenged  they 
died. 

On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod  ; King  Louis  turns  his 
reign. 

“ Not  yet,  my  liege,”  Saxe  interposed  ; “the  Irish  troops  remain.” 
And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a Waterloo, 

Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fresh,  vehement,  and  true. 

“ Lord  Clare,”  he  says,  “ you  have  your  wish  ; there  are  your  Saxon 
foes  !” 

The  marshal  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  furiously  he  goes  ! 

How  fierce  the  look  the  exiles  wear,  who’re  wont  to  be  so  gay. 
The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to-day — 
The  Treaty  broken  ere  the  ink  wherewith  ’twas  writ  could  dry, 
Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women’s  part- 
ing cry, 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country  over- 
thrown— 

Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere, 

Rushed  on  to  fight  a nobler  band  than  these  proud  exiles  were. 

O’Brien’s  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy  as,  halting,  he  commands, 
“Fix  bay’ nets  ; charge!”  Like  mountain  storm  rush  on  these 
fiery  bands  ! 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 
Yet,  must’ring  all  the  strength  they  have,  they  make  a gallant 
show. 


450 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that  battle-wind. 

Their  bayonets  the  breaker’s  foam,  like  rocks  the  men  behind. 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when  through  the  surging 
smoke, 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irish 
broke. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza  ! 

“ Revenge  ! remember  Limerick  ! dash  down  the  Saesanach  ! ” 

Like  lions  leaping  at  a fold  when  mad  with  hunger’s  pang, 

Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang. 

Bright  was  their  steel ; ’tis  bloody  now,  their  guns  are  filled  with 
gore. 

Through  shattered  ranks  and  severed  files  and  trampled  flags  they 
tore; 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused,  rallied, 
staggered,  fled — 

The  green  hill-side  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with  dead. 

Across  the  plain  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideous  wrack, 

While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  the  track. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun, 

With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — the  field  is  fought  and  won  ! 


clare’s  dragoons. 

When,  on  Ramillies’  bloody  field, 

The  baffled  French  were  forced  to  yield, 

The  victor  Saxon  backward  reeled 

Before  the  charge  of  Clare’s  Dragoons. 

The  flags  we  conquered  in  that  fray 
Look  lone  in  Ypres’  choir  they  say ; 

We’ll  win  them,  company,  to-day, 

Or  bravely  die  like  Clare’s  Dragoons. 

Chorus . 

Viva  la  for  Ireland’s  wrong  ! 

Viva  la  for  Ireland’s  right  ! 

Viva  la  in  battled  throng 

For  a Spanish  steed,  and  sabre  bright  ! 


Thomas  Davis . 


45  * 


The  brave  old  lord  died  near  the  fight. 

But  for  each  drop  he  lost  that  night 
A Saxon  cavalier  shall  bite 
The  dust  before  Lord  Clare’s  Dragoons ; 
For  never  when  our  spurs  were  set. 

And  never  when  our  sabres  met, 

Could  we  the  Saxon  soldiers  get 
To  stand  the  shock  of  Clare’s  Dragoons. 

Chorus. 

Viva  la  the  New  Brigade  ! 

Viva  la  the  old  one,  too  ! 

Viva  la  the  rose  shall  fade 

And  the  Shamrock  shine  forever  new  ! 

Another  Clare  is  here  to  lead, 

The  worthy  son  of  such  a breed ; 

The  French  expect  some  famous  deed 
When  Clare  leads  on  his  bold  Dragoons. 
Our  colonel  comes  from  Brian’s  race, 

His  wounds  are  in  his  breast  and  face, 

The  gap  of  danger  is  still  his  place, 

The  foremost  of  his  bold  dragoons. 

Chorus. 

Viva  la  the  New  Brigade  ! 

Viva  la  the  old  one,  too  ! 

Viva  la  the  rose  shall  fade 

And  the  shamrock  shine  for  ever  new  i 

There’s  not  a man  in  squadron  here 
Was  ever  known  to  flinch  or  fear. 

Though  first  in  charge  and  last  in  rear 
Has  ever  been  Lord  Clare’s  Dragoons. 

But  see,  we’ll  soon  have  work  to  do. 

To  shame  our  boasts  or  prove  them  true. 

For  hither  comes  the  English  crew 
To  sweep  away  Lord  Clare’s  Dragoons. 


452 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland \ 


Chorus. 

Viva  la  for  Ireland’s  wrong  ! 

Viva  la  for  Ireland’s  right ! 

Viva  la  in  battled  throng 

For  a Spanish  steed  and  sabre  bright ! 

0 comrades  ! think  how  Ireland  pines 
Her  exiled  lords,  her  rifled  shrines, 

Her  dearest  hope  the  ordered  lines. 

And  bursting  charge  of  Clare’s  Dragoons. 
Then  fling  your  Green  Flag  to  the  sky. 

Be  Limerick  your  battle-cry. 

And  charge  till  blood  floats  fetlock  high 
Around  the  track  of  Clare’s  Dragoons. 

Chorus. 

Viva  la  the  New  Brigade  ! 

Viva  la  the  old  one,  too  ! 

Viva  la  the  rose  shall  fade 

And  the  Shamrock  shine  for  ever  new  ! 


NATIONALITY. 

A nation’s  voice,  a nation’s  voice. 

It  is  a solemn  thing  ! 

It  bids  the  bondage-sick  rejoice, 

’Tis  stronger  than  a king. 

’Tis  like  the  light  of  many  stars. 

The  sound  of  many  waves, 

Which  brightly  look  through  prison-bars. 
And  sweetly  sound  in  caves. 

Yet  is  it  noblest,  godliest  known 

When  righteous  triumph  swells  its  tone. 

A nation’s  flag,  a nation’s  flag, 

If  wickedly  unrolled, 

May  foes  in  adverse  battle  drag 
Its  every  fold  from  fold  ! 


Thomas  Davis . 


453 


But  in  the  cause  of  Liberty 
Guard  it  ’gainst  earth  and  hell, 
Guard  it  till  death  or  victory — 

Look  you  you  guard  it  well ! 

No  saint  or  king  has  tomb  so  proud 
As  he  whose  flag  becomes  his  shroud. 


A nation’s  right,  a nation’s  right — 
God  gave  it,  and  gave,  too, 

A nation’s  sword,  a nation’s  might. 
Danger  to  guard  it  through. 

’Tis  freedom  from  a foreign  yoke, 

’Tis  just  and  equal  laws. 

Which  deal  unto  the  humblest  folk 
As  in  a noble’s  cause. 

On  nations  fixed  in  right  and  truth 
God  would  bestow  eternal  youth. 

May  Ireland’s  voice  be  ever  heard, 
Amid  the  world’s  applause  ! 

And  never  be  her  flag-staff  stirred, 
But  in  an  honest  cause  ! 

May  freedom  be  her  every  breath 
Be  justice  ever  dear, 

And  never  an  ennobled  death 
May  son  of  Ireland  fear  ! 

So  the  Lord  God  will  ever  smile, 

With  guardian  grace,  upon  our  Isle, 


OH  ! FOR  A STEED. 

Oh  ! for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  and  a blazing  scimitar. 
To  hunt  from  beauteous  Italy  the  Austrian’s  red  hussar ; 
To  mock  their  boasts. 

And  strew  their  hosts, 

And  scatter  their  flags  afar. 


454  7 "he  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Oh  ! for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  and  dear  Poland  gather’d  round, 
To  smite  her  circle  of  savage  foes,  and  smash  them  on  the  ground  ; 
Nor  hold  my  hand 
While  on  the  land 
A foreign  foe  was  found. 

Oh  ! for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  and  a rifle  that  never  failed. 

And  a tribe  of  terrible  prairie  men,  by  desperate  valor  mailed. 

Till  “ stripes  and  stars,” 

And  Russian  czars. 

Before  the  Red  Indian  quailed. 

Oh  ! for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  on  the  plains  of  Hindostan, 

And  a hundred  thousand  cavaliers,  to  charge  like  a single  man. 

Till  our  shirts  were  red. 

And  the  English  fled 
Like  a cowardly  caravan. 

Oh  ! for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  with  the  Greeks  at  Marathon, 

Or  a place  in  the  Switzer  phalanx  when  the  Morat  men  swept  on, 
Like  a pine-clad  hill 
By  an  earthquake’s  will 
Hurl’d  the  valleys  upon. 

Oh  ! for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  when  Brian  smote  down  the  Dane, 
Or  a place  beside  great  Hugh  O’Neill  when  Bagenal  the  bold  was  slain. 
Or  a waving  crest 
And  a lance  in  rest. 

With  Bruce  upon  Bannoch  plain. 

Oh  ! for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  on  the  Currach  of  Cilldar, 

And  Irish  squadrons  skilled  to  do,  as  they  are  ready  to  dare, 

A hundred  yards, 

And  Holland’s  guards 
Drawn  up  to  engage  me  there. 

Oh  !.  for  a steed,  a rushing  steed,  and  any  good  cause  at  all, 

Or  else,  if  you  will,  a field  on  foot,  or  guarding  a leaguered  wall 
For  freedom’s  right ; 

In  flushing  fight 
To  conquer,  if  then  to  fall. 


Thomas  Davis . 


455 


THE  GREEN-  ABOVE  THE  RED. 

Full  often,  when  our  fathers  saw  the  Red  above  the  Green, 

They  rose,  in  rude  but  fierce  array,  with  sabre,  pike,  and  skian, 
And  over  many  a noble  town  and  many  a field  of  dead 
They  proudly  set  the  Irish  Green  above  the  English  Red. 

But  in  the  end  throughout  the  land  the  shameful  sight  was  seen, 
The  English  Red  in  triumph  high  above  the  Irish  Green ; 

But  well  they  died,  in  breach  and  field,  who,  as  their  spirits  fled. 
Still  saw  the  Green  maintain  its  place  above  the  English  Red. 

And  they  who  saw,  in  after  times,  the  Red  above  the  Green 
Were  withered  as  the  grass  that  dies  beneath  the  forest  screen  ; 
Yet  often  by  this  healthy  hope  their  sinking  hearts  were  fed, 

That  in  some  day  to  come  the  Green  should  flutter  o’er  the  Red. 

Sure,  ’twas  for  this  Lord  Edward  died,  and  Wolfe  Tone  sunk 
serene — 

Because  they  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  Red  above  the  Green  ; 
And  ’twas  for  this  that  Owen  fought  and  Sarsfield  nobly  bled — 
Because  their  eyes  were  hot  to  see  the  Green  above  the  Red. 

So,  when  the  strife  began  again,  our  darling  Irish  Green 
Was  down  upon  the  earth,  while  high  the  English  Red  was  seen  ; 
Yet  still  we  held  our  fearless  course,  for  something  in  us  said  : 

“ Before  the  strife  is  o’er  you’ll  see  the  Green  above  the  Red.” 

And  ’tis  for  this  we  think  and  toil,  and  knowledge  strive  to 
glean — 

That  we  may  pull  the  English  Red  below  the  Irish  Green, 

And  leave  our  sons  sweet  liberty,  and  smiling  plenty  spread 
Above  the  land,  once  dark  with  blood — the  Green  above  the  Red  ! 

The  jealous  English  tyrant  now  has  bann’d  the  Irish  Green, 

And  forced  us  to  conceal  it  like  a something  foul  and  mean  ; 

But  yet,  by  Heaven  ! he’ll  sooner  raise  his  victims  from  the  dead 
Than  force  our  hearts  to  leave  the  Green  and  cotton  to  the  Red. 

We’ll  trust  ourselves,  for  God  is  good,  and  blesses  those  who  lean 
On  their  brave  hearts,  and  not  upon  an  earthly  king  or  queen  ; 
And,  freely  as  we  lift  our  hands,  we  vow  our  blood  to  shed 
Once  and  for  evermore  to  raise  the  Green  above  the  Red  ! 


456 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


THE  PEHAL  DAYS. 

Oh  ! weep  those  days,  the  penal  days. 
When  Ireland  hopelessly  complained ; 

Oh  ! weep  those  days,  the  penal  days. 
When  godless  persecution  reigned ; 
When,  year  by  year. 

For  serf  and  peer 
Fresh  cruelties  were  made  by  law. 

And,  filled  with  hate, 

Our  Senate  sate 

To  weld  anew  each  fetter’s  flaw. 

Oh  ! weep  those  days,  those  penal  days ; 
Their  mem’ry  still  on  Ireland  weighs. 

They  bribed  the  flock,  they  bribed  the  son. 
To  sell  the  priest  and  rob  the  sire  ; 

Their  dogs  were  taught  alike  to  run 
Upon  the  scent  of  wolf  and  friar. 

Among  the  poor. 

Or  on  the  moor, 

Were  hid  the  pious  and  the  true, 

While  traitor  knave 
And  recreant  slave 
Had  riches,  rank,  and  retinue. 

And,  exiled  in  those  penal  days. 

Our  banners  over  Europe  blaze. 

A stranger  held  the  land  and  tower 
Of  many  a noble  fugitive  ; 

Ho  Catholic  lord  had  lordly  power, 

The  peasant  scarce  had  leave  to  live  : 
Above  his  head 
A ruined  shed, 

Ho  tenure  but  a tyrant’s  will ; 

Forbid  to  plead. 

Forbid  to  read. 

Disarm’d,  disfranchis’d,  imbecile— 

What  wonder  if  your  step  betrays 
The  freedom  born  in  penal  days  ? 


Thomas  Davis . 


457 


They’re  gone,  they’re  gone,  those  penal  days. 
All  creeds  are  equal  in  our  isle  ; 

Then  grant,  0 Lord  ! thy  plenteous  grace 
Our  ancient  feuds  to  reconcile. 

Let  all  atone 

For  blood  and  groan, 

For  dark  revenge  and  open  wrong ; 

Let  all  unite 
For  Ireland’s  right, 

And  drown  our  griefs  in  freedom’s  song. 

Till  time  shall  veil  in  twilight’s  haze 
The  memory  of  those  penal  days. 


THE  RIGHT  ROAD. 

Let  the  feeble-hearted  pine, 

Let  the  sickly  spirit  whine, 

But  to  work  and  win  be  thine, 
While  you’ve  life. 

God  smiles  upon  the  bold. 

So  when  your  flag’s  unroll’d 
Bear  it  bravely  till  you’re  cold 
In  the  strife. 

If  to  rank  or  fame  you  soar, 

Out  your  spirit  frankly  pour. 

Men  will  serve  you  and  adore 
Like  a king. 

Woo  your  girl  with  honest  pride 
Till  you’ve  won  her  for  your  bride. 
Then  to  her  through  time  and  tide 
Ever  cling. 

Never  under  wrongs  despair; 

Labor  long  and  everywhere, 

Link  your  countrymen,  prepare, 
And  strike  home. 

Thus  have  great  men  ever  wrought. 
Thus  must  greatness  still  be  sought. 
Thus  labor’d,  lov’d,  and  fought 
Greece  and  Rome. 


453 


The  Prose  arid  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


TIPPEKARY. 

Let  Britain  boast  her  British  hosts, 

About  them  all  right  little  care  we  ; 

Not  British  seas  nor  British  coasts 
Can  match  the  man  of  Tipperary  ! 

Tall  is  his  form,  his  heart  is  warm, 

His  sirit  light  as  any  fairy  ; 

His  wrath  is  fearful  as  the  storm 
That  sweeps  the  hills  of  Tipperary  ! 

Lead  him  to  fight  for  native  land, 

His  is  no  courage  cold  and  wary ; 

The  troops  live  not  on  earth  would  stand 
The  headlong  charge  of  Tipperary  ’ 

Yet  meet  him  in  his  cabin  rude, 

Or  dancing  with  his  dark-haired  Mary, 

You’d  swear  they  knew  no  other  mood 
Buc  mirth  and  love  in  Tipperary  ! 

You’re  free  to  share  his  scanty  meal. 

His  plighted  word  he’ll  never  vary ; 

In  vain  they  tried  with  gold  and  steel 
To  shake  the  faith  of  Tipperary  ! 

Soft  is  his  cuilin’s  sunny  eye, 

Her  mien  is  mild,  her  step  is  airy, 

Her  heart  is  fond,  her  soul  is  high  ; 

Oh  ! she’s  the  pride  of  Tipperary, 

Let  Britain,  too,  her  banner  brag, 

We’ll  lift  the  Green  more  proud  and  airy  ; 

Be  mine  the  lot  to  bear  that  flag, 

And  head  the  men  of  Tipperary. 

Though  Britain  boasts  her  British  hosts, 
About  them  all  right  little  care  we ; 

Give  us,  to  guard  our  native  coasts, 

The  matchless  men  of  Tipperary  ! 


Thomas  Davis, 


459 


STUDY. 

[From  “ Literary  and  Historical  Essays,”  by  T.  Davis.] 

Beside  a library,  how  poor  are  all  the  other  greatest  deeds  of 
men — his  constitution,  brigade,  factory,  man-of-war,  cathedral — 
how  poor  are  all  miracles  in  comparison  ! Look  at  that  wall  of 
motley  calfskin,  open  those  slips  of  inked  rags,  who  would  fancy 
them  as  valuable  as  the  rows  of  stamped  cloth  in  a warehouse  ? 
Yet  Aladdin’s  lamp  was  a child’s  kaleidoscope  in  comparison. 
There  the  thoughts  and  deeds  of  the  most  efficient  men  during 
three  thousand  years  are  accumulated,  and  every  one  who  will  learn 
a few  conventional  signs — twenty-six  (magic)  letters — can  pass  at 
pleasure  from  Plato  to  Napoleon,  from  Argonauts  to  the  Affghans, 
from  the  woven  mathematics  of  La  Place  to  the  mythology  of 
Egypt,  and  the  lyrics  of  Burns. 

Young  reader,  pause  steadily  and  look  at  this  fact  till  it  blaze 
before  you  ; look  till  your  imagination  summons  up  even  the  few 
acts  and  thoughts  named  in  that  last  sentence,  and  when  these 
visions,  from  the  Greek  pirate  to  the  fiery-eyed  Scotchman,  have  be- 
gun to  dim,  solemnly  resolve  to  use  these  glorious  opportunities,  as 
one  whose  breast  has  been  sobbing  at  the  far  sight  of  a mountain 
resolves  to  climb  it,  and  already  strains  and  exults  in  his  purposed 
toil. 

Throughout  the  country,  at  this  moment,  thousands  are  consult- 
ing how  to  obtain  and  use  books.  We  feel  painfully  anxious  that 
this  noble  purpose  should  be  well  directed.  It  is  possible  that  these 
sanguine  young  men  who  are  wildly  pressing  for  knowledge  may 
grow  weary  or  be  misled — to  their  own  and  Ireland’s  injury.  We 
intend,  therefore,  to  put  down  a few  hints  and  warnings  for  them. 
Unless  they  themselves  ponder  and  discuss  these  hints  and  warnings, 
they  will  be  useless,  nay,  worse  than  useless. 

On  the  selection  and  purchase  of  books  it  is  hard  to  say  what  is 
useful  without  going  into  detail.  Carlyle  says  that  a library  is  the 
true  university  of  our  days,  where  every  sort  of  knowledge  is  brought 
together  to  be  studied  ; but  the  student  needs  guides  in  the  library 
as  much  as  in  the  university.  He  does  not  need  rules  nor  rulers, 
but  light  and  classification.  Let  a boy  loose  in  a library,  and  if  he 
have  years  of  leisure  and  a creative  spirit,  he  will  come  out  a master- 
mind. If  he  have  the  leisure  without  the  original  spring,  he  will 
become  a book-worm,  a useful  help,  perhaps,  to  his  neighbors,  but 


460 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


himself  a very  feeble  and  poor  creature.  For  one  man  who  gains 
weapons  from  idle  reading  we  know  twenty  who  lose  their  simpli- 
city without  getting  strength,  and  purchase  cold  recollections  of 
other  men’s  thoughts  by  the  sacrifice  of  nature. 

Just  as  men  are  bewildered  and  lost  for  want  of  guides  in  a large 
library,  so  are  others  from  an  equal  want  of  direction  in  the  pur- 
chase of  a small  one.  We  know  from  bitter  experience  how  much 
money  it  costs  a young  man  to  get  together  a sufficient  library. 
Still  more  hard  we  should  think  it  for  a club  of  young  men  to  do 
so.  But  worse  than  the  loss  of  money  are  the  weariness  from  read- 
ing dull  and  shallow  books,  the  corruption  from  reading  vicious, 
extravagant,  and  confused  books,  and  the  waste  of  time  and  patience 
from  reading  idle  and  impertinent  books.  The  remedy  is  not  by 
saying  : “This  book  you  shall  read,  and  this  other  you  shall  not 
read  under  penalty,”  but  by  inducing  students  to  regard  their  self- 
education  solemnly,  by  giving  them  information  on  the  classification 
of  books,  and  by  setting  them  to  judge  authors  vigorously,  and  for 
themselves. 

Booksellers,  especially  in  small  towns,  exercise  no  small  influence 
in  the  choice  of  books,  yet  they  are  generally  unfit  to  do  so.  They 
are  like  agents  for  the  sale  of  patent  medicines,  knowing  the  price 
but  not  the  ingredients,  nor  the  comparative  worth  of  their  goods, 
yet  puffing  them  for  the  commission’s  sake. 

If  some  competent  person  would  write  a book  on  books,  he  would 
do  the  world  a great  favor  ; but  he  had  need  be  a man  of  caution, 
above  political  bias  or  personal  motive,  and  indifferent  to  the  out- 
cries of  party. 

One  of  the  first  mistakes  a young,  ardent  student  falls  into  is  that 
he  can  master  all  knowledge.  The  desire  for  universal  attainment 
is  natural  and  glorious  ; but  he  who  feels  it  is  in  danger  of  hurry- 
ing over  a multitude  of  books,  and  confusing  himself  into  the  belief 
that  he  is  about  to  know  everything  because  he  has  skimmed  many 
things. 

Another  evil  is  apt  to  grow  from  this.  A young  man  who  gets  a 
name  for  a great  variety  of  knowledge  is  often  ashamed  to  appear 
ignorant  of  what  he  does  not  know.  He  is  appealed  to  as  an  au- 
thority, and  instead  of  manfully  and  wisely  avowing  his  ignorance, 
he  harangues  from  the  title  page,  or  skilfully  parades  the  opinions 
of  other  men  as  if  they  were  his  own  observations. 

Looking  through  books  in  order  to  talk  of  them  is  one  of  the 


Thomas  Davis.  461 

worst  and  commonest  vices.  It  is  an  acted  lie,  a device  to  conceal 
laziness  and  ignorance,  or  to  compensate  for  want  of  wit ; a stupid 
device,  too,  for  it  is  soon  found  out,  the  employer  of  it  gets  the 
character,  of  being  a literary  cheat ; he  is  thought  a pretender,  even 
when  well  informed,  and  a plagiarist  when  most  original. 

Reading  to  consume  time  is  an  honest  but  weak  employment.  It 
is  a positive  disease  with  multitudes  of  people.  They  crouch  in 
corners,  going  over  novels  and  biographies  at  the  rate  of  two  volumes 
a day,  when  they  would  have  been  far  better  employed  in  digging  or 
playing  shuttle-cock.  Still  it  is  hard  to  distinguish  between  this 
long  looking  through  books  and  the  voracity  of  a curious  and 
powerful  mind  gathering  stores  which  it  will  afterwards  arrange 
and  use. 

The  reader  needs  not  formally  criticise  and  review  every  book, 
still  less  need  he  pause  on  every  sentence  and  word  till  the  full 
meaning  of  it  stands  before  him. 

But  he  must  often  do  this  : He  must  analyze  as  well  as  enjoy. 
He  must  consider  the  elements  as  well  as  the  arguments  of  a book, 
just  as,  long  dwelling  on  a landscape,  he  will  begin  to  know  the 
trees  and  rocks,  the  sun-flooded  hollow  and  the  cloud-crowned  top, 
which  go  to  make  the  scene  ; or,  to  use  a more  illustrative  thought, 
/is  one,  long  listening  to  the  noise  on  a summer  day,  comes  to  sepa- 
rate and  mark  the  bleat  of  the  lamb,  the  hoarse  caw  of  the  crow, 
the  song  of  the  thrush,  the  buzz  of  the  bee,  and  the  tinkle  of  the 
brook. 

Doing  this  deliberately  is  an  evil  to  the  mind,  whether  the  subject 
be  nature  or  books.  The  evil  is  not  because  the  act  is  one  of  analy- 
sis, though  that  has  been  said.  It  is  proof  of  higher  power  to  com- 
bine new  ideas  out  of  what  is  before  you,  or  to  notice  combinations 
not  at  first  obvious,  than  to  distinguish  and  separate.  The  latter 
tends  to  logic,  which  is  our  humblest  exercise  of  mind,  the  for- 
mer to  creation,  which  is  our  highest.  Yet  analysis  is  not  an 
unhealthy  act  of  mind,  nor  the  process  we  have  described  always 
analytical. 

The  evil  of  deliberate  criticism  is  that  it  generates  scepticism. 
Of  course  we  do  not  mean  religious,  but  general,  scepticism.  The 
process  goes  on  till  one  sees  only  stratification  in  the  slope,  gases  in 
the  stream,  cunning  tissues  in  the  face,  associations  in  the  mind, 
an  astronomical  machine  in  the  sky.  A more  miserable  state  of 
soul  no  mortal  ever  suffered  than  this.  But  an  earnest  man,  living 


462 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


and  loving  vigorously,  is  in  little  danger  of  this  condition,  nor  does 
it  last  long  with  any  man  of  strong  character. 

Another  evil,  confined  chiefly  to  men  who  write  or  talk  for  effect, 
is  that  they  become  spies  (as  Emerson  calls  them)  on  nature.  They 
do  not  wonder  at,  love,  or  hate  what  they  see.  All  books  and  men 
are  arsenals  to  be  used,  or,  more  properly,  stores  to  be  plundered  by 
them.  But  their  punishment  is  sharp.  They  love  insight  into  the 
godlier  qualities,  they  love  the  sight  of  sympathy,  and  become  con- 
scious actors  of  a poor  farce. 

Happiest  is  he  who  judges  and  knows  books  and  nature  and  men 
(himself  included)  spontaneously  or  from  early  training,  whose  feel- 
ings are  assessors  with  his  intellect,  and  who  is  thoroughly  in  ear- 
nest. An  actor  or  a spy  is  weak  as  well  as  wretched  ; yet  it  may  be 
needful  for  him  who  was  blinded  by  the  low  principles,  the  tastelesa 
rules,  and  the  stupid  habits  of  his  family  and  teachers  to  face  this 
danger,  deliberately  to  analyze  his  own  and  others’  nature,  delibe- 
rately to  study  how  faculties  are  acquired  and  results  produced,  and 
to  cure  himself  of  blindness  and  deafness  and  dumbness,  and  be- 
come a man  observant  and  skilful.  He  will  suffer  much  and  run 
great  danger,  but  if  he  go  through  this  faithfully  and  then  fling 
himself  into  action  and  undertake  responsibility,  he  shall  be  great 
and  happy, 


O /T"??  £ 


DANIEL  O'CONNELL. 


“O’Connell  had  not  merely  to  arouse  a people— he  had,  first  of  all,  to  create  a 
people.  Having  created  a people,  he  had  to  shape  their  instincts— to  direct  and 
rule  them.  Hannibal  is  esteemed  the  greatest  of  generals,  not  because  he  gained 
victories,  but  because  he  made  an  army.  O’Connell,  for  the  same  reason,  must 
be  considered  among  the  first  of  legislators — not  because  he  won  triumphs,  but 
because  he  made  a people .” — Giles. 

“ Centuries  of  patient  endurance  brought,  at  length,  the  dawn  of  a better  day. 
God’s  hour  came,  and  it  brought  with  it  Ireland’s  greatest  son,  Daniel  O’Connell.” 
— V.  Rev.  Father  Burke,  O.P. 

“ God,  the  Church,  and  his  country — such  were  the  great  ends  of  all  his  actions.” 
— Father  Ventura. 


ANIEL  O’CONNELL,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  and 


greatest  political  geniuses  in  the  history  of  the  world,  was 
born  on  the  6th  of  August,  1775,  at  a place  called  Carhen,  near  the 
little  town  of  Cahirciveen,  county  of  Kerry.  His  father,  Morgan 
O’Connell,  belonged  to  an  ancient  Irish  family.  His  mother,  Kate 
O’Mullane,  was  a lady  of  rare  beauty  of  character.  Her  illustrious 
son,  in  after  years,  often  spoke  of  her.  “ I am,”  he  wrote  in  1841, 
“ the  son  of  a sainted  mother,  who  watched  oyer  my  childhood  with 
the  most  faithful  care.  She  was  of  a high  order  of  intellect,  and 
what  little  I possess  was  bequeathed  me  by  her.  I may,  in  fact,  say 
without  vanity  that  the  superior  situation  in  which  I am  placed  by 
my  countrymen  has  been  owing  to  her.  Her  last  breath  was  passed, 
I thank  Heaven,  in  calling  down  blessings  on  my  head  ; and  I valued 
her  blessing  since.  In  the  perils  and  dangers  to  which  I have  been 
exposed  through  life  I have  regarded  her  blessing  as  an  angel’s 
shield  over  me ; and  as  it  has  been  my  protection  in  this  life,  I look 
forward  to  it  also  as  one  of  the  means  of  obtaining  hereafter  a hap- 
piness greater  than  any  this  world  can  give.”  1 

Daniel’s  first  schoolmaster  was  poor  old  David  Mahony.  We  are 
told  that  he  kindly  took  the  little  fellow  on  his  knee,  and  in  the 
short  space  of  an  hour  and  a half  the  future  “ Liberator  ” — then  in 

1 Letter  in  the  Belfast  Vindicator , quoted  by  the  Nun  of  Kenmare  in  her  “ Life  of  Daniel 
O’Connell.” 


463 


464  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

his  fourth  year — learned  the  whole  alphabet  perfectly  and  per- 
manently. 2 3 

As  a boy,  he  liked  ballads,  and  was  very  ambitious.  He  read  much 
and  studied  hard.  His  uncle  3 took  the  Dullin  Magazine , which 
contained  sketches  and  pictures  of  distinguished  men.  “ I won- 
der,” he  would  say  to  himself,  “ will  my  picture  ever  appear  in 
this  ? ” One  day,  when  he  was  about  nine  years  of  age,  the  family 
were  discussing  the  merits  of  Burke  and  Grattan.  The  lad  looked 
grave  and  said  nothing.  “ What  are  you  thinking  of  ? ” said  a lady. 
“141  make  a stir  in  the  world  yet ! ” was  the  characteristic  reply. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen,  young  O’Connell  was  sent  for  a time  to  a 
Catholic  school 4 near  the  Cove  of  Cork,  or,  as  it  is  now  called, Queens- 
town, and  a year  or  two  later  he  proceeded  to  the  Continent,  where 
he  studied  successively  at  Louvain,  St.  Omer,  and  Douai. 

He  was  driven  from  France  by  the  barbarities  of  the  French  Re- 
volution, and  after  about  three  years  of  assiduous  law  study  in 
London,  he  was  called  to  the  Irish  bar  in  that  sadly  memorable 
year,  1798. 

When  thus  fairly  entered  upon  the  world’s  wide  stage,  he  had 
strong  reasons  for  avoiding  politics.  No  lawyer  could  hope  to  rise  in 
his  profession  unless  willing  to  be  the  parasite  and  slave  of  the  Go- 
vernment. In  Ireland  it  was  even  very  dangerous  to  be  found  in  op- 
position to  the  Government.  Despite  all  this,  O’Connell  could  not 
be  silent  when  he  beheld  the  legislative  independence  of  his  country 
about  to  be  annihilated.  Like  a brave,  honest  man,  he  indignantly 
protested  against  the  abhorred  Union.  His  first  public  speech  was 
a protest  against  it.  This  was  delivered  in  January,  1800,  in  the 
Hall  of  the  Royal  Exchange,  Dublin.  This  first  speech  contained 
the  principles  of  his  whole  political  life.  “ It  is  a curious  thing 
enough,”  said  he,  afterwards,  “that  all  the  principles  of  my  subse- 
quent political  life  are  contained  in  my  very  first  speech.5 

In  1802  O’Connell  married  his  cousin,  Miss  Mary  O’Connell,  the 
daughter  of  a physician  in  Tralee.  She  proved  a most  devoted 
wife 


2 “Life  of  O’Connell,”  by  his  son,  John  O'Connell. 

3 “ Daniel  O’Connell  was  adopted  by  his  Uncle  Maurice,  the  owner  of  Derrynane,  from 
whom  he  inherited  that  celebrated  place.” — “ Centenary  Life  of  O’Connell,”  by  Rev. 
John  O’Rourke,  P.P.,  M.R.I.A. 

4 This  was  the  first  Catholic  school  publicly  opened  after  the  repeal  of  the  penal  law 
which  forbade  Catholics  to  educate  their  children. 

5 W.  J.  O Neill  Daunt,  “ Personal  Reco  lections  of  O’Connell,”  vol.  ii. 


Daniel  O'Connell. 


465 


Ilis  success  in  his  profession  is  thus  translated  into  pounds  by 
himself.  “ The  first  year  I was  at  the  bar,”  he  remarked  to  Mr. 
Daunt,  “ I made  £58 ; the  second  year  about  £150  ; the  third 
year  £200  ; the  fourth  year  about  300  guineas.  I then  advanced 
rapidly,  and  the  last  year  of  my  practice  I got  £9,000,  although  I 
lost  one  term.”  8 

The  story  of  O’Connell’s  life  as  a public  man  is  the  history  of  Ire- 
land for  over  a third  of  a century.  It  cannot  be  told  here;  and, 
indeed,  it  is  too  well  known  to  need  repetition.  When  the  Catho- 
lics of  Ireland  were  sunk  in  gloomy  apathy,  and  degraded  by  odious 
penal  enactments,  he  raised  them  up  by  the  unaided  force  of  his 
astonishing  genius.  He  assumed  the  leadership.  In  1809,  he  began 
his  agitation  of  Catholic  emancipation.  He  addressed  the  people 
of  Ireland  in  letters  which  he  headed  with  the  motto  from  Byron  : 

“ Hereditary  bondsmen,  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow.” 

For  years  he  was  the  chief  organizer  and  speaker  at  all  Catholic 
meetings.  In  season  and  out  of  season,  he  toiled  away,  cheering  by 
his  words  and  his  presence  a heart-broken  and  down-trodden  people. 
Peacefully  he  fought  the  battles  of  his  native  isle,  almost  single- 
handed.  In  1823,  he  founded  the  Catholic  Association  ; organized 
the  Catholic  “ Rent,”  by  which  the  battle  of  the  people  was  fought  at 
the  election  hustings;  boldly  stood  for  the  representation  of  the  county 
of  Clare  in  1828 — was  elected;  forced  the  thick-headed  statesmen  and 
barbarous  G-overnment  of  England  to  concede  Catholic  emancipation 
in  1829  ; and  finally  held  a seat  in  the  British  Parliament  until  the 
day  of  his  death.  He  could  have  been  a judge  or  a lord,  but  he 
would  rather  be  Daniel  O’Connell.  He  cared  for  position  only  in  as 
far  as  it  enabled  him  to  assist  Ireland  and  her  unhappy  people.  In 
1831  he  left  the  bar  that  he  might. wholly  devote  himself  to  the  cause 
of  his  country.  He  began  the  Repeal  agitation.  He  wished  to  see  a 
Parliament  once  more  in  Dublin.  In  1843  he  was  prosecuted  by 
the  Government,  and  was  in  prison  for  three  months,  when  the 
judgment  against  him  was  reversed  by  the  House  of  Lords.  Soon 
after  he  found  himself  opposed  by  the  “ Young  Ireland  ” party ; 
his  health  declined ; his  popularity  declined  ; he  saw  gaunt  famine 
stalk  the  land,  and  the  clouds  of  misfortune  gather  and  become 
blacker  and  blacker.  While  the  Irish  were  famishing  by  thousands, 

6 W.  J.  O’Neill  Daunt,  *•  Personal  Recollections  of  O’ConnelV’  vol.  i. 


466 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland 


Irish  grain  was  shipped  from  Ireland.  Then,  that  the  cause  of  the 
famine  might  be  investigated,  some  English  scientists  were  sent 
over.  Well  did  the  indignant  spirit  of  the  great  old  man — great 
even  in  adversity — exclaim  : “ So  we  have  got  scientific  men  from 
England  ! It  appears  that  they  would  not  answer  unless  they  came 
from  England  ! just  as  if  we  had  not  men  of  science  in  abundance 
in  Ireland,  and  of  a higher  order  and  more  fitted  for  the  duties 
than  any  Saxon  they  could  send  over.  There  must  be  something 
English  mixed  up  in  the  thing,  even  in  an  enquiry  involving  per- 
haps the  life  and  death  of  millions;  anti-national  prejudices  must 
be  indulged  in,  and  the  mixing-stick  of  English  rule  introduced ! 
Well,  they  have  given  us  two  reports — these  scientific  men  have. 
And  what  is  the  value  of  them  ? Of  what  practical  use  will  they 
be  to  the  people  ? I read  them  over  and  over  again  in  the  hope  of 
finding  something  suggestive  of  a remedy,  and,  so  help  me  Heaven  ! 
— I don’t  mean  to  swear — if  I can  find  anything  in  the  reports  of 
these  scientific  men,  unless  that  they  knew  not  what  to  say  ! They 
suggest  a thing,  and  then  show  a difficulty.  Again  a suggestion  is 
made  which  comes  invested  with  another  difficulty,  and  then  they 
are  c your  very  humble  servants  !’  Oh  ! one  single  peck  of  oats — one 
bushel  of  wheat — ay,  one  boiled  potato — would  be  better  than  all 
their  reports  ! ” 

Ilis  last  words  in  the  British  Parliament  were:  “Ireland  is  in 
your  hands.  She  is  in  your  power.  If  you  don’t  save  her,  she 
can’t  save  herself ; and  I solemnly  call  upon  you  to  recollect  that 
I predict,  with  the  sincerest  conviction,  that  one-fourth  of  her 
population  will  perish  unless  you  come  to  her  relief  ! ” Two  months 
later  the  great  and  venerable  O’Connell  was  no  more.  He  started 
for  Rome,  “the  City  of  the  Soul,”  but  on  reaching  Genoa  he  died, 
on  the  15th  of  May,  1847,  in  the  seventy-second  year  of  his  age. 
His  last  words  were  : “ My  body  to  Ireland,  my  heart  to  Rome,  my 
, soul  to  Heaven  ! ” 


THE  MOSES  OF  ERIH. 7 

BY  JOHN  O’KANE  MURRAY. 

Columbia’s  bold  battle-cry  had  echoed  o’er  the  sea, 

The  brave  had  raised  their  banners  high  to  struggle  and  be  free, 
When  the  western  shores  of  Erin,  those  shores  so  grand  and  wild, 
Were  honored  by  a genius  young,  a good  and  gifted  child. 

T Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  O’Connell  Centenary,  August  6, 1875. 


Daniel  G Connell. 


467 


A hundred  years,  a hundred  years  have  slowly  rolled  away, 

And  in  this  land  we  celebrate  O’Connell’s  own  birthday — 

A day  when  Justice  bright  arrayed  to  his  great  tomb  shall  go, 

And  smiling  Freedom,  too,  shall  there  a beauteous  bouquet  throw. 

The  hero  of  an  isle  sublime,  his  course  I need  not  trace, 

For  as  he  grew  in  stature  grand,  he  grew  in  mind  and  grace  ; 

His  patent  of  nobility  to  him  came  from  above, 

And  ancient  faith  and  native  land  were  objects  of  his  love. 

In  him  great  Nature  blended,  in  one  harmonious  whole, 

A figure  of  matchless  manhood  with  beauties  of  the  soul  ; 

A mind  of  sparkling  genius  bold,  a breast  that  knew  not  fear, 

A soul  that  scanned  the  future  with  the  vision  of  a seer. 

Great  man  ! the  world  could  not  bribe  him,  nor  Britain  make  him  fear  ; 
He  thought  but  of  his  country — her  wrongs — her  sad,  sacred  tear  ! 

Ever  faithful,  nobly  faithful,  in  hall  or  felon’s  cell, 

He  loved  dear,  beauteous  Erin  ever  wisely  and  well. 

What  sword  and  blood  could  ne’er  obtain  from  England’s  brutal  hand 
His  peaceful  power  and  giant  voice  called  forth  at  a command — 

A command  of  magic  eloquence  that  round  the  world  did  roll, 

And  proclaimed  the  cause  of  Erin  to  every  heart  and  soul ! 

Shall  we  ever  see  his  like  again,  so  nobly  bright  and  bold, 

Poor  Erin’s  own  Demosthenes — greater  than  he  of  old  ; 

The  golden  tongue  in  eloquence,  whose  words  kept  Bull  at  bay, 

Whose  language  was  a thunder  grand,  that  shook  tyrannic  sway  ? 

To  me  speak  not  of  warriors  bold  who  battled  for  a name, 

Here  was  the  Christian  Hercules  that  fought  not  for  fame, 

But  with  grim  oppression  struggled,  and  single-handed  won, 

A glory  great,  an  action  grand — more  fadeless  than  the  sun  ! 

O’Connell  ! bright,  immortal  name  ! the  greatest  of  the  great, 

The  Moses  of  earth’s  blessed  isle,  the  guider  of  a state  ! 

From  the  Egypt  of  tyranny  he  set  his  people  free, 

And  the  promised  land  of  freedom  in  the  distance  had  to  see  ! 

Away  in  that  famed  old  city,  in  story  proud  and  bright, 

Renowned  home  of  Columbus,  in  which  first  he  saw  the  light, 

There  came  an  honored  pilgrim  to  rest  his  aged  head, 

For  him  life’s  battle  ended,  the  hopes  of  time  had  fled. 

At  last  that  moment  dread  arrived,  his  spirit  would  depart, 

And  then  he  breathed  these  farewell  words,  which  moved  his  mighty  hearts 
“ My  soul  to  thee,  Almighty  Lord  ! my  Irish  heart  to  Rome, 

My  blessing  and  my  latest  thought  to  my  fond  island  home  1 ” 


468 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


And  hovering  by  that  bed  of  death,  near  Erin’s  faithful  son, 

Are  angels.  Columbus  hails  him  on  his  victories  won. 

They  rise  ! and  on  high  together  shine  the  pilgrims  o’er  the  main, 
And  the  glorious  soul  sublime  that  a “ world  gave  to  Spain.” 

And  clear  aloft  O’Connell’s  name  a light  shall  ever  shine 
As  bright  freedom’s  star  resplendent  in  a firmament  divine. 

His  words  shall  be  remembered,  his  glories  spoken  o’er, 

When  England’s  power  and  savage  rule  shall  long  be  things  of  yore. 

On  the  green  hill-sides  of  Erin  his  voice  is  heard  no  more, 

But  the  echo  of  his  clarion  tones  comes  from  that  upper  shore. 
Whence  his  pure  and  lofty  spirit  still  cheers  us  here  below, 

And  beckons  “onward,”  “upward,”  as  the  ages  swiftly  flow. 


REPLY  TO  MR.  BELLEW. 

( Delivered  in  the  Catholic  Board , 1813.) 

At  this  late  hour,  and  in  the  exhausted  state  of  the  meeting,  it 
requires  all  the  impulse  of  duty  to  overcome  my  determination  to 
allow  the  debate  to  he  closed  without  any  reply,  hut  a speech  has 
been  delivered  by  the  learned  gentleman  (Mr.  Bellew)  which  I can- 
not suffer  to  pass  without  further  answer. 

My  eloquent  friend,  Mr.  O’Gorman,  has  already  powerfully 
exposed  some  of  its  fallacies,  but  there  were  topics  involved  in 
that  speech  which  he  has  not  touched  upon,  and  which,  it  seems 
to  me,  I owe  it  to  the  Catholics  and  to  Ireland  to  attempt  to 
refute. 

It  was  a speech  of  much  talent,  and  much  labor  and  prepara- 
tion. Mr.  Bellew  declared  that  he  had  spoken  extempore. 

Well,  it  was  certainly  an  able  speech,  and  we  shall  see  whether 
this  extempore  effort  of  the  learned  gentleman  will  appear  in  the 
newspapers  to-morrow  in  the  precise  words  in  which  it  was  uttered 
this  day.  I have  no  skill  in  prophecy,  if  it  does  not  happen  ; and 
if  it  does  so  happen,  it  will  certainly  be  a greater  miracle  than  that 
the  learned  gentleman  should  have  made  an  artful  and  ingenious, 
though,  I confess,  I think  a very  mischievous,  speech  without  pre- 
paration. 

I beg  to  say  that,  in  replying  to  him  and  to  the  other  supporters 
of  the  amendment,  I mean  to  speak  with  great  personal  respect  of 


Daniel  O'  Connell. 


469 


them,  but  that  I feel  myself  bound  to  treat  their  arguments  with 
no  small  degree  of  reprehension.  The  learned  gentleman  naturally 
claims  the  greater  part  of  my  attention.  The  ingenuity  with  which 
he  has,  I trust,  gratuitously  advocated  our  bigoted  enemies,  and  the 
abundance  in  which  he  has  dealt  out  insinuations  against  the 
Catholics  of  Ireland,  entitle  his  discourse  to  the  first  place  in  my 
reprobation.  Yet  I shall  take  the  liberty  of  saying  a passing  word 
of  the  other  speakers  before  I arrive  at  him.  He  shall  be  last,  but 
I promise  him  not  least,  in  my  consideration. 

The  opposition  to  the  general  vote  of  thanks  to  the  Bishops  was 
led  by  my  friend  Mr.  Hussey.  I attended  to  his  speech  with  that 
regard  which  I always  feel  for  anything  that  comes  from  him ; I 
attended  to  it  in  the  expectation  of  hearing  from  his  shrewd  and 
distinct  mind  something  like  argument  or  reasoning  against  this 
expression  of  gratitude  to  our  prelates.  But,  my  Lord,  I was 
entirely  disappointed ; argument  there  was  not  any,  reasoning 
there  was  none  ; the  sum  and  substance  of  his  discourse  was  lite- 
rally this,  that  he  (Mr.  Hussey)  is  a man  of  a prudent  and  econo- 
mical turn  of  mind,  that  he  sets  a great  value  on  everything  that  is 
good,  that  praise  is  excellent,  and,  therefore,  he  is  disposed  to  be 
even  stingy  and  niggard  of  it ; that  my  motion  contains  four  times 
too  much  of  that  excellent  article,  and  he  therefore  desires  to  strike 
off  three  ‘parts  of  my  motion,  and  thinks  that  one-quarter  of  his 
praise  is  full  enough  for  any  bishops,  and  this  the  learned  gentle- 
man calls  an  amendment. 

Mr.  Bagot  came  next,  and  he  told  us  that  he  had  made  a speech 
but  a fortnight  ago,  which  we  did  not  understand,  and  he  has  now 
added  another  which  is  unintelligible ; and  so,  because  he  was  mis- 
understood before,  and  cannot  be  comprehended  at  present,  he  con- 
cludes most  logically  that  the  Bishops  are  wrong,  and  that  he  and 
Mr.  Hussey  are  right. 

Sir  Edward  Bellew  was  the  next  advocate  of  censure  on  the 
Bishops ; he  entertained  us  with  a sad  specimen  of  minor  polemics, 
and  drew  a learned  and  lengthened  distinction  between  essential 
and  non-essential  discipline  ; and  he  insisted  that,  by  virtue  of  this 
distinction,  that  which  was  called  schism  by  the  Catholic  prelates 
could  be  changed  into  orthodoxy  by  an  Irish  baronet.  This  distinc- 
tion between  essential  and  non-essential,  must,  therefore,  be  very 
beautiful  and  beautifying.  It  must  be  very  sublime,  as  it  is  very 
senseless,  unless,  indeed,  he  means  to  tell  us  that  it  contains  some 


470  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

secret  allusion  to  our  enemies.  For  example,  that  the  Duke  of 
Richmond  affords  an  instance  of  the  essential  whilst  my  Lord 
Manners  is  plainly  non-essential ; that  Paddy  Duigenan  is  essential 
in  perfection,  and  the  foppish  Peel  is,  in  nature,  without  essence ; 
that  Jack  Giffard  is,  surely,  of  the  essential  breed,  whilst  Mr.  Willy 
Saurin  is  a dog  of  a different  color. 

Such,  I presume,  is  the  plain  English  of  the  worthy  baronet’s 
dissertation.  Translated  thus,  it  clearly  enough  alludes  to  the  new 
commission;  but  it  would  be  more  difficult  to  show  how  it  applied 
in  argument  against  my  motion.  I really  did  not  expect  so  whim- 
sical an  opposition  from  the  honorable  baronet.  If  there  be  any 
feeling  of  disappointment  about  him  for  the  rejection  of  the  double 
Veto  Bill,  he  certainly  ought  not  to  take  revenge  on  the  board  by 
bestowing  on  us  all  the  tediousness  of  incomprehensible  and  in- 
sane theology.  I altogether  disclaim  reasoning  with  him,  and  I 
freely  consent  that  those  who  relish  his  authority  as  a theologian 
should  vote  against  the  prelates. 

And  now  I address  myself  to  the  learned  brother  of  the  theolo- 
gical baronet.  He  began  by  taking  great  merit  to  himself  and  de- 
manding great  attention  from  you,  because  he  says  that  he  has  so 
rarely  addressed  you.  You  should  yield  to  him,  he  says,  because  he 
so  seldom  requires  your  assent.  It  reminds  me  of  the  prayer  of  the 
English  officer  before  battle:  “Great  Lord,”  said  he,  “during 
the  forty  years  I have  lived  I never  troubled  you  before  with  a 
single  prayer.  I have,  therefore,  a right  that  you  should  grant 
me  one  request,  and  do  just  as  I desire  for  this  once.”  Such  was 
the  manner  in  which  the  learned  gentleman  addressed  us ; he  begs 
you  wrill  confide  in  his  zeal  for  your  interests  because  he  has  hitherto 
confined  that  zeal  to  his  own.  He  desires  that  you  will  rely  upon 
his  attention  to  your  affairs  because  he  has  been  heretofore  inatten- 
tive to  them ; and  that  you  may  depend  on  his  anxiety  for  Catholic 
emancipation  inasmuch  as  he  has  abstained  from  taking  any  step 
to  attain  that  measure. 

Quite  different  are  my  humble  claims  on  your  notice,  quite  dif- 
ferent are  the  demands  I make  on  your  confidence.  I humbly  so- 
licit it  because  I have  sacrificed,  and  do,  and  ever  will,  sacrifice  my 
interest  to  yours ; because  I have  attended  to  the  varying  posture  of 
your  affairs,  and  sought  for  Catholic  emancipation  with  an  activity 
and  energy  proportioned  to  the  great  object  of  our  pursuit.  I do, 
therefore,  entreat  your  attention  whilst  I unravel  the  spider-web  of 


Daniel  O'  Connell. 


47i 


sophistry  with  which  the  learned  gentleman  this  day  sought  to  em- 
barrass and  disfigure  your  cause. 

His  discourse  was  divided  into  three  principal  heads.  First,  he 
charged  the  Catholic  prelates  with  indiscretion  ; secondly,  he 
charged  them  with  error  ; and,  lastly,  he  charged  the  Catholics 
with  bigotry ; and,  with  the  zeal  and  anxiety  of  a hired  advocate,  he 
gratuitously  vindicated  the  intolerance  of  our  oppressors.  I beg 
your  patience  whilst  I follow  the  learned  gentleman  through  this 
threefold  arrangement  of  his  subject.  I shall,  however,  invert  the 
order  of  his  arrangement  and  begin  with  his  third  topic. 

His  argument  in  support  of  the  intolerants  runs  thus : First,  he 
alleges  that  the  Catholics  are  attached  to  their  religion  with  a bigoted 
zeal.  I admit  the  zeal,  but  I utterly  deny  the  bigotry.  He  seems 
to  think  I overcharge  the  statement.  Perhaps  I do  ; but  I feel  con- 
fident that,  in  substance,  this  accusation  amounted  to  a direct  charge 
of  bigotry.  Well,  having  charged  the  Catholics  with  a bigoted 
attachment  to  their  Church,  and  having  truly  stated  our  repugnance 
to  any  interference  on  the  part  of  the  secretaries  of  the  Castle  with 
our  prelates,  he  proceeded  to  insist  that  those  feelings  on  our  part 
justified  the  apprehensions  of  the  Protestants.  The  Catholics,  said 
Mr.  Bellew,  are  alarmed  for  their  Church ; why  should  not  the 
Protestants  be  alarmed  also  for  theirs  ? The  Catholic,  said  he,  de- 
sires safety  for  his  religion  ; why  should  not  the  Protestant  require 
security  for  his  ? When  you  Catholics  express  your  anxiety  for  the 
purity  of  your  faith,  adds  the  learned  advocate,  you  demonstrate  the 
necessity  there  is  for  the  Protestant  to  be  vigilant  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  his  belief ; and  hence  Mr.  Bellew  concludes  that  it  is  quite 
natural,  and  quite  justifiable  in  the  Liverpools  and  Eldons  of  the 
Cabinet  to  invent  and  insist  upon  guards  and  securities,  vetoes,  and 
double  vetoes,  boards  of  control,  and  commissions  for  loyalty. 

Before  I reply  to  this  attack  upon  us  and  vindication  of  our 
enemies,  let  me  observe  that,  however  groundless  the  learned  gentle- 
man may  be  in  argument,  his  friends  at  the  Castle  will  at  least  have 
the  benefit  of  boasting  that  such  assertions  have  been  made  by  a 
Catholic  at  the  Catholic  Board. 

And  now  see  how  futile  and  unfounded  his  reasoning  is.  He 
says  that  our  dislike  to  the  proposed  commission  justifies  the  sus- 
picion in  which  the  plan  of  such  commission  originated ; that  our 
anxiety  for  the  preservation  of  our  Church  vindicates  those  who 
deem  the  proposed  arrangement  necessary  for  the  protection  of 


472  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

theirs — a mode  of  reasoning  perfectly  true,  and  perfectly  applicable, 
if  we  sought  any  interference  with,  or  control  over,  the  Protestant 
Church.  If  we  desire  to  form  any  board  or  commission  to  control 
or  to  regulate  the  appointment  of  their  bishops,  deans,  archdeacons, 
rectors,  or  curates ; if  we  asked  or  required  that  a single  Catholic 
should  be  consulted  upon  the  management  of  the  Protestant  Church 
or  of  its  revenues  or  privileges  ; then  indeed  would  the  learned  gen- 
tleman be  right  in  his  argument,  and  then  would  he  have,  by  our 
example,  vindicated  our  enemies. 

But  the  fact  does  not  bear  him  out ; for  we  do  not  seek,  nor 
desire,  nor  would  we  accept  of,  any  kind  of  interference  with  the 
Protestant  Church.  We  disclaim  and  disavow  any  kind  of  control 
over  it.  We  ask  not,  nor  would  we  allow,  any  Catholic  authority 
over  the  mode  of  appointment  of  their  clergy.  Nay,  we  are  quite 
content  to  be  excluded  forever  from  even  advising  his  Majesty 
with  respect  to  any  matter  relating  to  or  concerning  the  Protestant 
Church,  its  rights  its  properties,  or  its  privileges.  I will,  for  my 
own  part,  go  much  further  ; and  I do  declare  most  solemnly  that  I 
would  feel  and  express  equal,  if  not  stronger,  repugnance  to  the  in- 
terference of  a Catholic  with  the  Protestant  Church  than  that  I 
have  expressed  and  do  feel  to  any  Protestant  interference  with  ours. 
In  opposing  their  interference  with  us,  I content  myself  with  the 
mere  war  of  words.  But  if  the  case  were  reversed,  if  the  Catholic 
sought  this  control  over  the  religion  of  the  Protestant,  the  Protest- 
ant should  command  my  heart,  my  tongue,  my  arm,  in  opposition 
to  so  unjust  and  insulting  a measure.  So  help  me  God  ! I would 
in  that  case  not  only  feel  for  the  Protestant  and  speak  for  him,  but 
I would  fight  for  him,  and  cheerfully  sacrifice  my  life  in  the  defence 
of  the  great  principle  for  which  I have  ever  contended; — the  prin- 
ciple of  universal  and  complete  religious  liberty. 

Then,  can  anything  be  more  absurd  and  untenable  than  the 
argument  of  the  learned  gentleman  when  you  see  it  stripped  of  the 
false  coloring  he  has  given  it  ? It  is  absurd  to  say  that  merely  be- 
cause the  Catholic  desires  to  keep  his  religion  free  the  Protestant 
is  thereby  justified  in  seeking  to  enslave  it.  Reverse  the  position, 
and  see  whether  the  learned  gentleman  will  adopt  or  enforce  it. 
The  Protestant  desires  to  preserve  his  religion  free ; would  that 
justify  the  Catholic  in  any  attempt  to  enslave  it  ? I will  take  the 
learned  advocate  of  intolerance  to  the  bigoted  court  of  Spain  or 
Portugal,  and  ask  him  would  he,  in  the  supposed  case,  insist  that 


Daniel  O'Connell. 


473 


the  Catholic  was  justifiable.  No,  my  Lord,  he  will  not  venture  to 
assert  that  the  Catholic  would  bo  so  ; and  I boldly  tell  him  that  in 
such  a case  the  Protestant  would  be  unquestionably  right,  the 
Catholic  certainly  an  insolent  bigot. 

But  the  learned  gentleman  has  invited  me  to  a discussion  of  the 
question  of  securities,  and  I cheerfully  follow  him.  And  I do,  my 
Lord,  assert  that  the  Catholic  is  warranted  in  the  most  scrupulous 
and  timid  jealousy  of  any  English,  for  I will  not  call  it  Protestant 
(for  it  is  political,  and  not,  in  truth,  religious),  interference  with  his 
Church.  And  I will  also  assert,  and  am  ready  to  prove,  that  the 
English  have  no  solid  or  rational  pretext  for  requiring  any  of  those 
guards,  absurdly  called  securities,  over  us  or  our  religion. 

My  Lord,  the  Irish  Catholics  never,  never  broke  their  faith — 
they  never  violated  their  plighted  promise  to  the  English.  I appeal 
to  history  for  the  truth  of  my  assertion.  My  Lord,  the  English 
never,  never  observed  their  faith  with  us — they  never  performed 
their  plighted  promise ; the  history  of  the  last  six  hundred  years 
proves  the  accuracy  of  my  assertion.  I will  leave  the  older  pe- 
riods, and  fix  myself  at  the  Revolution.  More  than  one  hundred 
and  twenty  years  have  elapsed  since  the  Treaty  of  Limerick. 
That  treaty  has  been  honorably  and  faithfully  performed  by  the 
Irish  Catholics  ; it  has  been  foully,  disgracefully,  and  directly 
violated  by  the  English.  English  oaths  and  solemn  engagements 
bound  them  to  its  performance ; it  remains  still  of  force  and  un- 
performed, and  the  ruffian  yell  of  English  treachery  which  accom- 
panied its  first  violation  has,  it  seems,  been  repeated  even  in  the 
Senate  House  at  the  last  repetition  of  the  violation  of  that  treaty. 
They  rejoiced  and  they  shouted  at  the  perjuries  of  their  ancestors 
— at  their  own  want  of  good  faith  or  common  sense. 

Nay,  are  there  not  present  men  who  can  tell  us,  of  their  own 
knowledge,  of  another  instance  of  English  treachery  ? Was  not 
the  assent  of  many  of  the  Catholics  to  the  fatal — oh  ! the  fatal — 
measure  of  the  Union  purchased  by  the  express  and  written  promise 
of  Catholic  emancipation,  made  from  authority  by  Lord  Corn- 
wallis, and  confirmed  by  the  Prime  Minister,  Mr.  Pitt  ? And  has 
that  promise  been  performed  ; or  has  Irish  credulity  afforded  only 
another  instance  of  English  faithlessness  ? Now,  my  Lord,  I 
ask  this  assembly  whether  they  can  confide  in  English  promises  ? 
I say  nothing  of  the  solemn  pledges  of  individuals.  Can  you 
confide  in  the  more  than  punic  faith  of  your  hereditary  task-mas- 


474 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


ters  ? or  shall  we  be  accused  of  our  scrupulous  jealousy  when  we 
reject  with  indignation  the  contamination  of  English  control  over 
our  Church  ? 

But,  said  their  learned  advocate  (Mr.  Bellew),  they  have  a right 
to  demand,  because  they  stand  in  need  of  securities.  I deny  the 
right ; I deny  the  need.  There  is  not  any  such  right ; there  exists 
no  such  necessity.  What  security  have  they  had  for  the  century 
that  has  elapsed  since  the  violation  of  the  Treaty  of  Limerick  ? 
What  security  have  they  had  during  these  years  of  oppression  and 
barbarous  and  bloody  legislation  ? What  security  have  they  had 
■whilst  the  hereditary  claim  of  the  house  of  Stuart  remained  ? And 
surely  all  the  right  that  hereditary  descent  could  give  was  vested  in 
that  family.  Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I admit  they  had  no 
right ; I admit  that  their  right  was  taken  away  by  the  people.  I 
freely  admit  that,  on  the  contrary,  the  people  have  the  clear  right 
to  cashier  base  and  profligate  princes.  What  security  had  the  Eng- 
lish from  our  Bishops  when  England  was  invaded,  and  that  the 
unfortunate  but  gallant  Prince  Charles  advanced  into  the  heart  of 
England,  guided  by  valor,  and  accompanied  by  a handful  of  brave 
men,  who  had,  under  his  command,  obtained  more  than  one  vic- 
tory ? He  was  a man  likely  to  excite  and  gratify  Irish  enthusiasm. 
He  was  chivalrous  and  brave  ; he  was  a man  of  honor  and  a gen- 
tleman— no  violater  of  his  word  ; he  spent  not  his  time  in  making 
his  soldiers  ridiculous  with  horse-tails  and  white  feathers  ; he  did 
not  consume  his  mornings  in  tasting  curious  drams,  and  evenings 
in  gallanting  old  women.  What  security  had  the  English,  then  ? 
What  security  had  they  against  our  Bishops  or  our  laity  when  Ame^ 
rica  nobly  flung  off  the  yoke  that  had  become  too  heavy  to  be 
borne,  and  sought  her  independence  at  the  risk  of  her  being  ? 
What  security  had  they  then  ? I will  tell  you,  my  Lord.  Their 
security  at  all  those  periods  was  perfect  and  complete  because  it 
existed  in  the  conscientious  allegiance  of  the  Catholics ; it  consisted 
in  the  duty  of  allegiance  which  the  Irish  Catholics  have  ever  held, 
and  will,  I trust,  ever  hold,  sacred  ; it  consisted  in  the  conscien- 
tious submission  to  legitimate  authority,  however  oppressive,  which 
our  Bishops  have  always  preached  and  our  laity  have  always  prac- 
tised. 

And  now,  my  Lord,  they  have  the  additional  security  of  our 
oaths,  of  our  ever-inviolated  oaths  of  allegiance ; and  if  they  had 
emancipated  us,  they  would  have  had  the  additional  security  of 


Daniel  O'Connell. 


475 


our  gratitude  and  of  our  personal  and  immediate  interests.  We 
have  gone  through  persecution  and  sorrow;  we  have  experienced 
oppression  and  affliction,  and  yet  we  have  continued  faithful. 
How  absurd  to  think  that  additional  security  could  be  necessary 
to  guard  against  conciliation  and  kindness  ! 

But  it  is  not  bigotry  that  requires  those  concessions  ; they  were 
not  invented  by  mere  intolerance.  The  English  do  not  dislike  us 
as  Catholics ; they  simply  hate  us  as  Irish.  They  exhaust  their  blood 
and  treasure  for  the  Catholics  of  Spain ; they  have  long  observed 
and  cherished  a close  and  affectionate  alliance  with  the  ignorant 
and  bigoted  Catholics  of  Portugal ; and  now  they  exert  every  sinew 
to  preserve  those  Catholics  from  the  horrors  of  a foreign  yoke. 
They  emancipated  the  French  Catholics  in  Canada,  and  a German 
Catholic  is  allowed  to  rise  to  the  first  rank  in  his  profession — the 
army ; he  can  command  not  only  Irish,  but  even  English  Protes- 
tants. Let  us,  therefore,  be  just;  there  is  no  such  horror  of 
“ Popery  ” in  England  as  is  supposed.  They  have  a great  dislike  to 
Irish  Catholics  ; but  separate  the  qualities,  put  the  filthy  whiskers 
and  foreign  visage  of  a German  on  the  animal,  and  the  Catholic  is 
entitled  to  high  favor  from  the  just  and  discriminating  English. 
We  fight  their  battles,  we  beat  their  enemies,  we  pay  their  taxes, 
and  we  are  degraded,  oppressed,  and  insulted,  whilst  the  Spanish, 
the  Portuguese,  the  French,  and  the  German  Catholics  are  courted, 
cherished,  and  promoted. 

I revert  now  to  the  learned  gentleman’s  accusation  of  the  Bishops. 
He  has  accused  them  of  error  in  doctrine  and  of  indiscretion  in  prac- 
tice. He  tells  us  that  he  is  counsel  to  the  College  of  Maynooth, 
and  in  that  capacity  he  seems  to  arrogate  to  himself  much  theolo- 
gical and  legal  knowledge.  I concede  the  law,  but  I deny  the 
divinity  ; neither  can  I admit  the  accuracy  of  the  eulogium  which 
he  has  pronounced  on  that  institution,  with  its  mongrel  board  of 
control,  half  Catholic  and  half  Protestant.  I was,  indeed,  at  a loss 
to  account  for  the  strange  want  of  talent — for  the  silence  of  Irish 
genius  which  has  been  remarked  within  the  College.  I now  see  it 
easily  explained.  The  incubus  of  jealous  and  rival  intolerance  sits 
upon  its  walls,  and  genius  and  taste  and  talent  fly  from  the  sad 
dormitory,  where  sleeps  the  spirit  of  dulness.  I have  heard,  in- 
deed, of  their  Crawleys  and  these  converts,  but  where  or  when  will 
that  College  produce  a Magee  or  a Sandes,  a McDonnell  or  a Griffin  ? 
When  will  the  warm  heart  of  Irish  genius  exhibit  in  Maynooth  such 


1 


4/6 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


bright  examples  of  worth  and  talent  as  those  men  disclose?  It  is 
true  that  the  bigot  may  rule  in  Trinity  College ; the  highest  sta- 
tion in  it  may  be  the  reward  of  writing  an  extremely  bigoted  and 
more  foolish  pamphlet ; but  still  there  is  no  conflicting  principle  of 
hostile  jealousy  in  his  rulers ; and,  therefore,  Irish  genius  does  not 
slumber  there,  nor  is  it  smothered  as  at  Maynooth. 

The  accusation  of  error  brought  against  the  Bishops  by  the 
learned  gentleman  is  sustained  simply  upon  his  opinion  and  autho- 
rity. The  matter  stands  thus  : At  the  one  side  we  have  the  most 
reverend  and  right  reverend  the  Catholic  Prelates  of  Ireland,  who 
assert  that  there  is  schism  in  the  proposed  arrangement;  on  the 
other  side  we  have  the  very  reverend  the  counsel  for  the  college  of 
Maynooth,  who  asserts  that  there  is  no  schism  in  that  arrangement. 
These  are  the  conflicting  authorities.  The  reverend  Prelates  assert 
the  one ; he,  the  counsellor,  asserts  the  other  ; and  as  we  have  not 
leisure  to  examine  the  point  here  doctrinally,  we  are  reduced  to  the 
sad  dilemma  of  choosing  between  the  Prelates  and  the  lawyer. 
There  may  be  a want  of  taste  in  the  choice  which  I make,  but  I 
confess  I cannot  but  prefer  the  Bishops.  I shall,  therefore,  say  with 
them  there  would  be  schism  in  the  arrangement,  and  deny  the  as- 
sertion of  the  reverend  counsel  that  it  would  not  be  schism.  But 
suppose  his  reverence  the  counsel  for  Maynooth  was  right,  and  the 
Bishops  wrong,  and  that  in  the  new  arrangement  there  would  be  no 
schism,  I then  say  there  would  be  worse ; there  would  be  corrup- 
tion and  profligacy  and  subserviency  to  the  Castle  in  it,  and  its  de- 
grading effects  would  soon  extend  themselves  to  every  rank  and 
class  of  the  Catholics. 

I now  come  to  the  second  charge  which  the  learned  gentleman,  in 
his  capacity  of  counsel  to  the  College  of  Maynooth,  has  brought 
against  the  Bishops.  It  consists  of  the  high  crime  of  “ indiscre- 
tion.They  were  indiscreet,  said  he,  in  coming  forward  so  soon 
and  so  boldly.  What ! when  they  found  that  a plan  had  been 
formed  which  they  knew  to  be  schismatic  and  degrading — when 
they  found  that  this  plan  was  matured  and  printed  and  brought 
into  Parliament  and  embodied  in  a bill  and  read  twice  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  without  any  consultation  with  and,  as  it  were,  in 
contempt  of  the  Catholics  of  Ireland — shall  it  be  said  that  it  was 
either  premature  or  indiscreet  solemnly  and  loudly  to  protest  against 
such  plan  ? If  it  were  indiscreet,  it  was  an  indiscretion  which  I 
love  and  admire — a necessary  indiscretion,  unless,  perhaps,  the 


Daniel  O' Connell. 


477 


learned  counsel  for  Maynooth  may  imagine  tliat  the  proper  time 
would  not  arrive  for  this  protest  until  the  bill  had  actually  passed, 
and  all  protest  should  be  unavailing. 

No,  my  Lord,  I cannot  admire  this  thing  called  Catholic  discre- 
tion, which  would  manage  our  affairs  in  secret  and  declare  our 
opinions  when  it  was  too  late  to  give  them  any  importance.  Catholic 
discretion  may  be  of  value  at  the  Castle ; a Catholic  secret  may  be 
carried  to  be  discounted  there  for  prompt  payment.  The  learned 
gentleman  may  also  tell  us  the  price  that  Catholic  discretion  bears 
at  the  Castle — whether  it  be  worth  a place,  a peerage,  or  a pension. 
But  if  it  have  value  and  a price  for  individuals,  it  is  of  no  worth  to 
the  Catholic  people.  I reject  and  abjure  it  as  applicable  to  public 
officers.  Our  opinions  ought  to  be  formed  deliberately,  but  they 
should  be  announced  manfully  and  distinctly.  We  should  be  despi- 
cable and  deserve  to  continue  in  slavery  if  we  could  equivocate  or 
disguise  our  sentiments  on  those  subjects  of  vital  importance  ; and 
I call  upon  you  to  thank  the  Catholic  Prelates  precisely  because 
they  had  not  the  learned  gentleman’s  quality  of  discretion,  and  that 
they  had  the  real  and  genuine  discretion,  which  made  them  pub- 
lish resolutions  consistent  with  their  exalted  rank  and  reverend 
character,  and  most  consonant  to  the  wishes  and  views  of  the 
Catholic  people  of  Ireland. 

I now  draw  to  a close,  and  I conjure  you  not  to  come  to  any  divi- 
sion. Let  the  amendment  be  withdrawn  by  my  learned  friend, 
and  let  our  approbation  of  our  amiable  and  excellent,  our  dignified 
and  independent.  Prelates  be,  as  it  ought  to  be,  unanimous.  We 
want  unanimity ; we  require  to  combine  in  the  constitutional  pur- 
suit of  Catholic  emancipation  every  class  and  rank  of  the  Catho- 
lics— the  prelate  and  the  peer,  the  country  gentleman  and  the  far- 
mer, the  peasant  and  his  priest.  Oar  career  is  to  begin  again  ; let 
our  watchword  be  unanimity,  and  our  object  be  plain  and  undis- 
guised, as  it  has  been — namely,  simple  Repeal.  Let  us  not  involve 
or  embarrass  ourselves  with  vetoes  and  arrangements  and  securities 
and  guards  and  pretexts  of  divisions  and  all  the  implements  for  min- 
isterial corruption  and  Castle  dominion.  Let  our  cry  be  simple 
Repeal ! 

It  is  well,  it  is  very  well,  that  the  late  bill  has  been  rejected.  I 
rejoice  that  it  has  been  scouted.  Our  sapient  friends  at  Cork  called 
it  a “ Charter  of  Emancipation.”  You,  my  Lord,  called  it  so;  but, 
with  much  respect,  you  and  they  are  greatly  mistaken.  In  truth. 


a 


47$  The  Prose  arid  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

it  was  no  charter  at  all,  nor  like  a charter ; and  it  would  not  have 
emancipated.  This  charter  of  emancipation  was  no  charter,  and 
would  give  no  emancipation.  As  a plain,  prose-like  expression  it 
was  unsupported,  and  as  a figure  of  fiction  it  made  very  bad  poetry. 
No,  my  Lord,  the  bill  would  have  insulted  your  religion  and  done 
almost  nothing  for  your  liberties  ; it  would  have  done  nothing  at  all 
for  the  people.  It  would  send  a few  of  our  discreet  Catholics,  with 
their  Castle  discretion,  into  the  House  of  Commons,  but  it  would 
not  have  enabled  Catholic  peers  in  Ireland  to  vote  for  the  repre- 
sentative peers  ; and  thus  the  blunder  arose,  because  those  friends 
who,  I am  told,  took  so  much  trouble  for  you  examined  the  Act  of 
Union  only,  and  did  not  take  the  trouble  of  examining  the  act  regu- 
lating the  mode  of  voting  for  the  representative  peers. 

The  bill  would  have  done  nothing  for  the  Catholic  bar  save  the 
paltry  dignity  of  silk  gowns,  and  it  would  have  actually  deprived 
that  bar  of  the  places  of  assistant  barrister,  which,  as  the  law 
stands,  they  may  enjoy.  It  would  have  done  nothing  in  corpora- 
tions— literally  nothing  at  all ; and  when  I pressed  this  on  Mr. 
Plunket,  and  pointed  out  to  him  the  obstacles  to  corporate  rights 
in  a conference  with  which,  since  his  return  to  Ireland,  he  honored 
me,  he  informed  me — and  informed  me,  of  course,  truly — that  the 
reason  why  the  corporations  could  not  be  further  opened,  or  even 
the  Bank  of  Ireland  mentioned,  was  because  the  English  would 
not  listen  to  any  violation  of  chartered  rights.  And  this  bill,  my 
Lord — this  inefficient,  useless,  and  insulting  bill — must  be  dignified 
with  the  appellation  of  a “ Charter  of  Emancipation.”  I do  most 
respectfully  entreat,  my  Lord,  that  the  expression  may  be  well  con- 
sidered before  it  is  used  again. 

And  now  let  me  entreat,  let  me  conjure  the  meeting  to  banish 
every  angry  emotion,  every  sensation  of  rivalship  or  opposition ; let 
us  recollect  that  we  owe  this  vote  to  the  unimpeached  character  of 
our  worthy  Prelates.  Even  our  enemies  respect  them,  and  in  the 
fury  of  religious  and  political  calumny  the  breath  even  of  hostile 
and  polemical  slander  has  not  reached  them.  Shall  Catholics,  then, 
be  found  to  express,  or  even  to  imply,  censure  ? 

Recollect,  too,  that  your  country  requires  your  unanimous  sup- 
port. Poor,  degraded,  and  fallen  Ireland  has  you,  and,  I may  al- 
most say,  you  alone,  to  cheer  and  sustain  her  ! Her  friends  have 
been  lukewarm  and  faint-hearted  ; her  enemies  are  vigilant,  active, 
yelling,  and  insulting.  In  the  name  of  your  country  I call  on  you 


Daniel  O'*  Connell. 


479 


not  to  divide,  but  to  concentrate  your  unanimous  efforts  to  her  sup- 
port, till  bigotry  shall  be  put  to  flight  and  oppression  banished  this 
land  for  ever. 


O’CONNELL’S  LETTERS  TO  ARCHBISHOP  MACHALE. 

Merrion  Square,8  31st  December,  1827. 

My  Lord  : The  public  papers  will  have  already  informed  your 
Lordship  of  the  resolution  to  hold  a meeting  for  petition  in  every 
parish  in  Ireland  on  Monday,  13th  January. 

I should  not  presume  to  call  your  Lordship’s  particular  attention 
to  this  measure,  or  respectfully  to  solicit  your  countenance  and  sup- 
port in  your  diocese,  if  I was  not  most  deeply  convinced  of  its  ex- 
treme importance  and  utility.  The  combination  of  national  action 
— all  Catholic  Ireland  acting  as  one  man — must  necessarily  have  a 
powerful  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  ministry  and  of  the  entire 
British  nation  ; a people  who  can  be  thus  brought  to  act  together, 
and  by  one  impulse,  are  too  powerful  to  be  neglected,  and  too  for- 
midable to  be  long  opposed. 

Convinced,  deeply,  firmly  convinced,  of  the  importance  of  this 
measure,  I am  equally  so  of  the  impossibility  of  succeeding  unless 
we  obtain  the  countenance  and  support  of  the  Catholic  prelates  of 
Ireland.  To  you,  my  Lord,  I very  respectfully  appeal  for  that  sup- 
port. I hope  and  respectfully  trust  that  in  your  diocese  no  parish 
will  be  found  deficient  in  activity  and  zeal. 

I intend  to  publish  in  the  papers  the  form  of  a petition  for 
emancipation  which  may  be  adopted  in  all  places  where  no  indi- 
vidual may  be  found  able  and  willing  to  prepare  a proper  draft. 

I am  sorry  to  trespass  thus  on  your  Lordship’s  most  valuable  time, 
but  I am  so  entirely  persuaded  of  the  vital  utility  of  the  measure 
of  simultaneous  meeting  to  petition  that  I venture  over  again,  but 
in  the  most  respectful  manner,  to  urge  on  your  kind  and  considerate 
attention  the  propriety  of  assisting  in  such  manner  as  you  may  deem 
best  to  attain  our  object. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  with  profound  respect,  my  Lord,  your 
Lordship’s  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

Daniel  O’Connell. 

To  the  Right  Rev.  Dr.  MacHale.9 

8 Dublin.  9 At  this  time  Dr.  MacHale  was  Bishop  of  Killala. 


1 


480 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


London,  22d  March,  1834. 

My  ever-respected  Lord  : I had  the  honor  of  receiving  a let- 
ter from  you  some  time  ago,  promising  a repeal  petition,  and  I wish 
to  say  that  the  petition  has  not  come  to  hand.  I regret  to  be 
obliged  to  add  that  the  number  of  repeal  petitions  does  not  at  all 
correspond  with  my  hopes  and  expectations. 

I am  the  more  sorry  for  this  because  1 have  the  most  intimate 
conviction  that  nothing  of  value  can  possibly  be  done  for  Ireland 
until  we  have  a domestic  Parliament.  The  faction  which,  in  all  its 
ramifications,  bears  so  severely  on  our  people  and  our  country,  can 
never  be  rendered  innoxious  whilst  they  can  cling,  even  in  idea,  to 
support  from  the  Government  of  this  country.  It  is  a subject  of 
serious  but  melancholy  speculation  to  reflect  upon  the  innate  spirit 
of  hatred  of  everything  Irish  which  seems  to  be  the  animating  prin- 
ciple of  their  existence.  You  certainly  have  two  distinct  specimens 
of  the  worthlessness  of  that  existence  in  your  county  members. 
Two  such  “lubbers,”  as  the  seamen  would  call  them,  two  such 
“bustoons,”  as  we  in  Munster  would  denominate  them,  never  yet 
figured  on  any  stage,  public  or  private.  One  of  the  best  of  your 
Lordship’s  good  works  will  be  assisting  to  muster  such  a combina- 
tion of  electoral  force  in  your  county  as  will  ensure  the  rejection  of 
both  at  the  next  practical  opportunity.  I should  be  tempted  to 
despair  of  Ireland  if  I could  doubt  of  your  success.  I read  with 
deep  and  painful  interest  your  published  letters  to  Lord  Grey. 
What  a scene  of  tyranny  and  heartless  oppression  on  the  one  hand  ! 
what  a frightful  view  of  wretchedness  and  misery  on  the  other  ! 
A man  is  neither  a human  being  nor  a Christian  who  does  not  de- 
vote all  his  energies  to  find  a remedy  for  such  grievances.  But  that 
remedy  is  not  to  be  found  in  a British  Parliament. 

You  will  see  by  the  papers  that  the  Protestant  dissenters  in  this 
country  are  storming  that  citadel  of  intolerance  and  pride — the 
Established  Church.  The  effect  of  such  an  attack  can  operate  only 
for  good  in  Ireland.  This  was  the  stronghold  of  the  Irish  Establish- 
ment. As  long  as  they  had  England  at  their  back  they  could  laugh 
to  scorn  all  attempts  in  Ireland  to  curb  them.  But  I believe,  firmly 
believe,  their  days  are  numbered,  and  hope  that  we  shall  see,  but 
certainly  not  weep. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  my  Lord,  most  respectfully,  your  most 
obedient  servant,  Daniel  O’Connell. 

Bight  Bev.  Dr.  MacHale. 


Daniel  O'Connell. 


481 


Merrioxt  Square,  10th  December,  1834. 

My  revered  Lord  : There  have  been  many  letters  of  congratu- 
lation 10  addressed  to  your  Grace,  but  none,  I will  venture  to  say, so 
cordial  as  mine,  because  I not  only  congratulate  you  as  a gentle- 
man whom  even  as  a private  individual  I highly  respect,  but  con- 
gratulate you  in  the  name  of  Ireland,  and  for  her  sake ; and  above 
all,  for  the  sake  of  that  faith  whose  sacred  deposit  has  been  pre- 
served by  your  predecessors,  and  will  be  preserved  unblemished, 
and  indeed  with  increased  lustre,  by  your  Grace. 

Indeed,  I venture  to  hope  that  there  are  times  coming  when  the 
period  of  the  oppression  of  the  Church  in  Ireland,  destined  by  God 
in  his  adorable  dispensations  to  arrive,  will  have  arrived.  I do,  I 
confess , venture  to  augur  favorably  from  your  nomination  by  his 
Holiness  the  Pope — you  who  had  proved  yourself  too  honest  an 
Irishman  not  to  be  obnoxious  to  the  British  Administration. 

It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  brilliant  dawn  of  a noonday  in  which  the 
light  of  Borne  will  no  longer  be  obscured  by  the  clouds  of  English 
influence.  I often  sighed  at  the  delusion  created  in  the  political 
circles  at  Borne  on  the  subject  of  the  English  Government.  They 
thought,  good  souls,  that  England  favored  the  Catholics  when  she 
only  yielded  to  our  claims,  not  knowing  that  the  secret  animosity  to 
Catholicity  was  as  envenomed  as  ever  it  was. 

The  present  Pope  11 — may  God  protect  his  Holiness — has  seen 
through  that  delusion,  and  you  are  proof  that  it  will  no  longer  be 
a cause  of  misconception  to  be  as  true  to  the  political  interests  as  to 
the  spiritual  wants  of  the  people  of  Ireland.  I am  delighted  at 
this  new  era.  Ho  man  can  be  more  devoted  to  the  spiritual  authori- 
ty of  his  Holiness.  I always  detested  what  were  called  the  liberties 
of  the  “ Church  in  France.” 

I am  convinced  that  the  more  direct  and  unequivocal  is  that 
authority  according  to  the  canons,  the  more  easy  will  it  be  to  pre- 
serve the  unity  of  faith. 

I need  not  add  that  there  does  not  live  a human  being  more  sub- 
missive— in  omnibus — to  the  Church  than  I am,  from  the  most  un- 
changeable conviction.  I have  only  to  add  that  if  your  Grace  could 
have  any  occasion  for  any  exertion  of  mine  in  support  of  any  can- 
didate in  any  county  in  Connaught,  I shall  have  the  greatest  pleasure 
in  receiving  your  suggestions  as  cherished  commands.  * 

10  Dr.  MacHale  had  just  been  appointed  Archbishop  of  Tuam. 

11  Gregory  XVI, 


482  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  with  profound  respect,  my  Lord,  of  your 
Grace  the  most  obedient,  faithful  servant, 

Daniel  O’Connell. 

Most  Rev.  Dr.  MacHale. 


Merrion  Square,  9th  Nov.,  1837. 

Mi  ever-respected  and  dear  Lord:  I know  you  pity  me  12 
and  afford  me  the  relief  of  your  prayers.  To-morrow  I begin  to 
console  my  heart  by  agitation.  I am  now  determined  to  leave  every 
other  consideration  aside  and  to  agitate  really — to  agitate  to  the  full 
extent  the  law  sanctions.  Command  me  now  in  everything. 

I got  this  morning  a blank  cover  enclosing  two  letters  for  your 
Grace.  I enclose  one  in  this  and  another  in  a second  frank  ; they 
would  be  overweight  if  sent  together.  The  address  has  the  name 
of  George  Washington  on  the  corner — whether  an  assumed  name  or 
not  I have  no  room  to  conjecture.  I mention  these  things  merely 
to  show  your  Grace  that  if  these  letters  be  not  genuine  I am  unable 
to  afford  any  clue  to  the  writer.  They  may,  however,  be  perfectly 
correct  in  all  particulars. 

I believe  we  are  safe  in  all  the  counties  and  towns  in  Connaught 
save  Sligo  and  Athlone.  I indeed  believe  the  latter  tolerably  secure. 
Every  nerve  must  be  strained  to  increase  the  Irish  majority  in  Par- 
liament. My  watchword  is,  ee  Irish  or  Repeal.”  Indeed,  I entertain 
strong  hopes  that  we  shall  live  to  see  the  latter — “ a consummation 
most  devoutly  to  be  wished.” 

Dr.  England  13  was  with  me  yesterday ; he  gave  me  some  strong 
evidence  of  the  hostility  of  the  English  Catholics  to  those  of  Ireland. 
He  has  promised  to  give  it  to  me  in  writing,  and  I will  send  your 
Grace  a copy.  He  goes  off  to  “Haite”  next  week,  but  purposes 
to  return  next  year,  and  then  intends  to  suggest  a place  for  a Foreign 
Missionary  Society  in  Ireland,  should  it  meet  with  the  approbation 
of  the  Irish  prelates.  Irish  priests  are  abundantly  abused,  yet  they 
are  in  demand  by  the  religious  and  zealous  Catholics  all  over  the 
world. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  with  profound  respect,  my  revered  Lord, 
of  your  Grace  the  servant,  Daniel  O’Connell. 

Most  Rev.  Dr.  MacHale. 


12  He  had  just  buried  his  devoted  wife. 

13  The  celebrated  Bishop  of  Charleston,  S.  C. 


RICHARD  LALOR  SHEIL. 


‘ ‘ A man  who,  while  our  language  lasts,  will  be  spoken  of  as  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  orators  of  Ireland.” — Dr.  R.  S.  Mackenzie. 


ICHARD  LALOR  SIIEIL  was  born  at  Waterford,  Ireland,  in 


the  year  1793. 1 His  father,  Edward  Sheil,  had  acquired  in 
Cadiz,  Spain,  a considerable  fortune,  which  he  invested  in  the  pur- 
chase of  an  estate  near  Waterford,  and  married  Miss  Catharine  Mac- 
Carthy,  a lady  of  the  county  of  Tipperary. 

Richard  received  his  first  education  from  a French  clergyman,  an 
exile  from  his  own  country,  who  resided  at  Mr.  Sheil’s  house.  The 
boy  was  then  sent  to  a French  Catholic  school  at  Kensington, 
afterwards  to  the  Jesuit  College  at  Stonyhurst,  and  finally  he 
entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  “ with  a competent  knowledge  of 
the  classics,  some  acquaintance  with  Italian  and  Spanish,  and  the 
power  of  speaking  and  writing  French  as  if  it  were  his  mother- 
tongue.”  Before  he  was  twenty,  he  graduated  with  distinction. 

In  1814,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  Sheil  was  called  to  the  Irish 
bar.  His  youth,  of  course,  was  against  him.  His  tastes  inclined  to 
literature,  and  for  several  years  his  contributions  to  the  London 
magazines  afforded  him  the  chief  means  of  subsistence.  He  wrote 
for  the  stage  also — excited  by  the  brilliant  genius  of  Miss  O’Neill, 
the  Irish  tragedienne — and  his  play  of  “ Evadne  ” still  retains  a 
place  in  the  acted  drama  by  means  of  its  declamatory  poetry  and 
effective  situations.2 

In  1816  Sheil  married  Miss  OTIalloran,  a young  lady  whose  only 
fortune  was  her  education  and  her  great  personal  beauty. 

He  joined  with  O’Connell  in  establishing  the  Catholic  Association 
in  1823.  “ In  this  body,”  writes  Dr.  R.  S.  Mackenzie,  “both 

leaders  spoke  earnestly  and  well.  O’Connell’s  r6le  was  to  insist  on 
justice  for  Ireland ; Sheil’s  to  cast  contempt  and  ridicule  upon 
what  was  called  Protestant  ascendancy .” 

In  the  Catholic  cause  Sheil  labored  for  many  years  with  tireless 

1 MacNevin,  in  his  “Memoir  ” of  Sheil,  says  that  he  was  born  in  the  county  of  Kilkenny 
on  the  16th  of  August,  1791.  Dr.  Mackenzie,  in  his  “ Memoir”  of  Sheil,  states  what  we 
give  above.  Somebody  has  blundered. 

2 R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  D.C.L  , “Memoir  of  Sheil.” 


483 


484  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

devotion.  At  tlie  celebrated  election  of  O’Connell  in  1829  as  M.P. 
for  the  county  of  Clare,  he  was  the  “Liberator’s”  most  eloquent 
supporter.  His  speech  on  that  historic  occasion  was  among  his 
happiest  efforts.  But  perhaps  the  most  solid  and  splendid  of  all 
his  speeches  was  that  delivered  the  previous  year  at  Penenden 
Heath,  England,  in  defence  of  the  Irish  Catholics  and  their  reli- 
gion. This  speech  is  given  on  page  485  in  the  present  volume.  Of 
this  speech  the  famous  philosopher,  Jeremy  Bentham,  wrote  to  his 
friend  Calloway:  “ So  masterly  a union  of  logic  and  rhetoric  as  Mr. 
SheiPs  speech  scarcely  have  I ever  beheld.” 

The  Catholic  question  having  been  settled,  a great  change  took 
place  in  the  fortunes  of  Shell.  Through  Lord  Egerton  he  was  made 
king’s  counsel.  But  the  object  of  his  ambition  was  a seat  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  In  1831  he  was  returned  for  Milbourne  Port ; 
in  after  years  for  the  county  of  Tipperary  ; and  from  1841  to  1850 
he  represented  the  little  Irish  borough  of  Dungarvan. 

In  Parliament,  the  position  occupied  by  Sheil  was  immediate, 
unquestioned,  and  exalted.  In  fact,  he  took  rank  at  once  as  one  of 
the  best  orators  in  the  House  of  Commons.  * Though  not  a very 
ready  debater,  his  prepared  speeches  enchained  attention,  and  won 
the  applause  even  of  his  antagonists.  He  had  the  disadvantage  of  a 
small  person,  negligent  attire,  shrill  voice,  and  vehement  gesticula- 
tion ; but  these  were  all  forgotten  when  he  spoke,  and  his  singu- 
larly peculiar  manner  gave  the  appearance  of  impulse  even  to  his 
most  elaborated  compositions.  Words  cannot  briefly  describe  the 
character  of  Sheil’s  rhetoric.  It  was  aptly  said,  in  the  style  of  his 
own  metaphors,  “ He  thinks  lightning.”  3 

In  November,  1850,  Sheil,  whose  health  was  declining,  was 
offered,  and  accepted,  the  post  of  British  Plenipotentiary  at  the 
Court  of  Tuscany,  Italy.  He  died  at  Florence  of  a sudden  attack 
of  gout,  on  the  25th  of  May,  1851. 

Sheil’a  “ Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar,”  one  of  the  most  spicy, 
graphic,  and  entertaining  works  in  our  literature,  was  begun  in 
1822  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine , a London  periodical,  then 
conducted  by  the  poet,  Thomas  Campbell.  “ The  far-famed  paper 
on  O’Connell,”  writes  Dr.  Mackenzie,  “was  repeatedly  reprinted  in 
Europe  and  America,  and  translated  into  French,  German,  Italian, 
and  Spanish.”  “The  Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar,”  in  two  volumes, 


3 R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  D.C.L. 


Richard  Lalor  Shell.  485 

4 

with  a memoir  and  notes  by  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  D.C.L.,  was 
first  published  in  New  York  City  in  1854. 

“ Sheil,”  said  North,  “ erred  in  the  choice  of  a profession.  Had 
he  cultivated  the  drama  instead  of  the  law,  he  would  have  equalled 
Shakspere.” 

“ Slieil,”  wrote  Henry  Giles,  “ had  a mind  of  the  finest  nature 
and  of  the  richest  cultivation,  a vigorous  intellect,  and  an  exuberant 
fancy.  His  speaking  was  a condensation  of  thought  and  passion, 
in  brilliant,  elaborate,  and  often  antithetical  expression.  He 
happily  united  precision  and  embellishment,  and  his  ideas  in  being 
adorned  became  not  only  attractive,  but  distinct.  Images  were  as 
easy  to  him  as  words,  and  his  figures  were  as  correct  as  they  were 
abundant.  With  a faculty  peculiarly  dramatic,  he  gave  vivid  illu- 
sion to  the  scenes  and  characters  with  which  he  filled  the  imagination 
of  his  hearers.  He  compressed  into  a passage  the  materials  of  a 
tragedy,  and  moved  as  he  pleased  to  terror  and  to  pity.  He  was 
not  the  less  the  master  of  invective  and  of  sarcasm.  He  was  in 
prose  almost  as  effective  a satirist  as  Pope  was  in  verse — as  scath- 
ing and  as  lacerating.  He  clothed  burlesque  in  as  mocking  a 
gravity,  was  as  bitter  in  his  irony,  as  polished  in  his  wit,  as  elegant 
in  his  banter,  and  sometimes  as  unmerciful  in  his  ridicule.  In  the 
battle  for  Catholic  emancipation  this  splendid  and  impassioned 
orator  was  heard  everywhere  in  Ireland  shrieking  forth  the 
wrongs  of  his  people.  That  shrill  voice  of  his  cried  aloud  and 
spared  not.  It  stirred  his  brethren  to  indignation  and  to  action  ; it 
pierced  into  their  souls,  and  awakened  to  torture  the  sense  of  their 
degradation.  It  was  heard  in  metropolis  and  village,  on  the  moun- 
tain and  in  the  market-place.  It  rang  out  from  sea  to  sea,  and  was 
chorused  by  the  shouts  of  sympathetic  multitudes.  O’Connell  was 
the  legislator  and  the  doer,  but  in  the  agency  of  speech  Shiel  was 
indefatigable,  and  had  no  superior.”4 


THE  CATHOLICS  OP  IRELAND. 

( Speech  at  Penenden  Heath,  England , October  24, 1828.) 

Let  no  man  believe  that  I have  come  here  in  order  that  I might 
enter  the  lists  of  religious  controversy  and  engage  with  any  of  you 
in  a scholastic  disputation.  In  the  year  1828  the  Real  Presence 


4 “ Lectures  and  Essays.' 


f 


486  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

does  not  afford  an  appropriate  subject  for  debate,  and  it  is  not  by 
the  shades  of  a mystery  that  the  rights  of  a British  citizen  are  to  be 
determined.  I do  not  know  whether  there  are  many  here  by  whom 
I am  regarded  as  an  idolater  because  I conscientiously  adhere  to  the 
faith  of  your  forefathers,  and  profess  the  doctrine  in  which  I was 
born  and  bred ; but  if  I am  so  accounted  by  you,  you  ought  not  to 
inflict  a civil  deprivation  upon  the  accident  of  the  cradle.  You 
ought  not  to  punish  me  for  that  for  which  I am  not  in  reality  to 
blame.  If  you  do,  you  will  make  the  misfortune  of  the  Catholic 
the  fault  of  the  Protestant,  and  by  inflicting  a wrong  upon  my  re- 
ligion cast  a discredit  upon  your  ov’n.  I am  not  the  worse  subject 
of  my  King  and  the  worse  citizen  of  my  country  because  I concur 
in  the  belief  of  the  great  majority  of  the  Christian  world  ; and  I 
will  'venture  to  add,  with  the  frankness  and  something  of  the  blunt- 
ness by  which  Englishmen  are  considered  to  be  characterized,  that 
if  I am  an  idolater,  I have  a right  to  be  one  if  I choose;  my  idola- 
try is  a branch  of  my  prerogative,  and  is  no  business  of  yours. 

But  you  have  been  told  by  Lord  Winchelsea  that  the  Catholic 
religion  is  the  adversary  of  freedom.  It  may  occur  to  you,  per- 
haps, that  his  Lordship  affords  a proof  in  his  own  person  that  a 
passion  for  Protestantism  and  a love  of  liberty  are  not  inseparably 
associated ; but  without  instituting  too  minute  or  embarrassing  an 
enquiry  into  the  services  to  freedom  which  in  the  course  of  his 
political  life  have  been  conferred  by  my  Lord  Winchelsea,  and  put- 
ting aside  all  personal  considerations  connected  with  the  accuser, 
let  me  proceed  to  the  accusation. 

Calumniators  of  Catholicism,  have  you  read  the  history  of  your 
country  ? Of  the  charges  against  the  religion  of  Ireland  the  an- 
nals of  England  afford  the  confutation.  The  body  of  your  com- 
mon laws  was  given  by  the  Catholic  Alfred.  He  gave  you  your 
judges,  your  magistrates,  your  high  sheriffs,  your  courts  of  justice, 
your  elective  system,  and  the  great  bulwark  of  your  liberties — the 
trial  by  jury.  When  Englishmen  peruse  the  chronicles  of  their 
glory  their  hearts  beat  high  with  exultation,  their  emotions  are  pro- 
foundly stirred,  and  their  souls  are  ardently  expanded.  Where  is 
the  English  boy  who  reads  the  story  of  his  great  island  whose  pulse 
does  not  beat  at  the  name  of  Bunnemede,  and  whose  nature  is  not 
deeply  thrilled  at  the  contemplation  of  that  great  incident  when 
the  mitred  Langton,  with  his  uplifted  crozier,  confronted  the 
tyrant  whose  sceptre  shook  in  his  trembling  hand,  and  extorted 


Richard  Lalor  Shcil. 


487 


what  you  have  so  justly  called  the  Great,  and  what,  I trust  in  God, 
you  will  have  cause  to  designate  as  your  everlasting,  Charter  ? It 
was  by  a Catholic  Pontiff  that  the  foundation-stone  in  the  Temple 
of  Liberty  was  laid,  and  it  was  at  the  altars  of  that  religion  which 
you  are  accustomed  to  consider  as  the  handmaid  of  oppression  that 
the  architects  of  the  Constitution  knelt  down. 

Who  conferred  upon  the  people  the  right  of  self-taxation,  and 
fixed,  if  he  did  not  create,  the  representation  of  the  people  ? The 
Catholic  Edward  the  First,  while  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the 
Third  perfection  was  given  to  the  representative  system,  parlia- 
ments were  annually  called,  and  the  statute  against  constructive 
treason  was  enacted.  It  is  false,  foully,  infamously  false,  that  the 
Catholic  religion,  the  religion  of  your  forefathers,  the  religion  of 
seven  millions  of  your  fellow-subjects,  has  been  the  auxiliary  of  de- 
basement, and  that  to  its  influences  the  suppression  of  British 
freedom  can,  in  a single  instance,  be  referred.  I am  loath  to  say 
that  which  can  give  you  cause  to  take  offence;  but  when  the  faith 
of  my  country  is  made  the  object  of  imputation  I cannot  help,  I 
cannot  refrain,  from  breaking  into  a retaliatory  interrogation,  and 
from  asking  whether  the  overthrow  of  the  old  religion  of  England 
was  not  effected  by  a tyrant  with  a hand  of  iron  and  a heart  of 
stone  ? Whether  Henry  did  not  trample  upon  freedom  while  upon 
Catholicism  he  set  his  foot ; and  whether  Elizabeth  herself,  the 
virgin  of  the  Reformation,  did  not  inherit  her  despotism  with  her 
creed  ; whether  in  her  reign  the  most  barbarous  atrocities  were  not 
committed ; whether  torture,  in  violation  of  the  Catholic  common 
law  of  England,  was  not  politically  inflicted,  and  with  the  shrieks 
of  agony  the  Towers  of  Julius  in  the  dead  of  night  did  not  re- 
echo ? And  to  pass  to  a more  recent  period,  was  it  not  on  the  very 
day  on  which  Russell  perished  on  the  scaffold  that  the  Protestant 
University  of  Oxford  published  the  declaration  in  favor  of  passive 
obedience,  to  which  your  Catholic  ancestors  would  have  laid  down 
their  lives  rather  than  have  submitted  ? 

These  are  facts  taken  from  your  own  annals,  with  which  every 
one  of  you  should  be  made  familiar;  but  it  is  not  to  your  own 
annals  that  the  recriminatory  evidence  on  which  I am  driven  to  rely 
shall  be  confined.  If  your  religion  is  the  inseparable  attendant 
upon  liberty,  how  does  it  come  to  pass  that  Prussia,  and  Sweden, 
and  Denmark,  and  half  the  German  States  should  be  Protestants, 
and  should  be  also  slaves  ? You  may  suggest  to  me  that  in  the 


438 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


larger  portion  of  Catholic  Europe  freedom  does  not  exist ; but  you 
should  bear  in  mind  that  at  a period  when  the  Catholic  religion  was 
in  its  most  palmy  state  freedom  flourished  in  countries  in  which  it 
is  now  extinct.  Look  at  Italy,  not  indeed  as  she  now  is,  but  as  she 
was  before  Martin  Luther  was  horn,  when  literature  and  liberty 
were  associated,  and  the  arts  imparted  their  embellishments  to  her 
free  political  institutions.  I call  up  the  memory  of  the  Italian 
Catholic  republics  in  the  great  cause  which  I am  sufficiently  ad- 
yen  turous  to  plead  before  you.  Florence,  accomplished,  manufac- 
turing, and  democratic,  the  model  of  your  own  municipal  corpora- 
tions, gives  a noble  evidence  in  favor  of  Catholicism;  and  Venice, 
Catholic  Venice,  rises  in  the  splendor  of  her  opulence  and  the 
light  of  her  liberty  to  corroborate  the  testimony  of  her  celebrated 
sister  with  a still  more  lofty  and  majestic  attestation.  If  from  Italy 
I shall  ascend  the  Alps,  shall  I not  find  in  the  mountains  of  Switz- 
erland the  sublime  memorials  of  liberty  and  the  reminiscences  of 
those  old  achievements  which  preceded  the  theology  of  Geneva,  and 
which  were  performed  by  men  by  whom  the  ritual  of  Rome  was 
uttered  on  the  glaciers,  and  the  great  mystery  of  Catholicism  was 
celebrated  on  the  altars  which  nature  had  provided  for  that  high 
and  holy  worship  ? But  Spain,  I may  be  told,  Spain  affords  the 
proof  that  to  the  purposes  of  despotism  her  religion  has  always  lent 
its  impious  and  disastrous  aid.  That  mistake  is  a signal  one,  for 
when  Spain  was  most  devotedly  Catholic  Spain  was  comparatively 
free;  her  Cortes  assumed  an  attitude  nobler  even  than  your  own 
Parliament,  and  told  the  King,  at  the  opening  of  every  session  in 
which  they  were  convened,  that  they  were  greater  and  invested 
with  a higher  authority  than  himself.  In  the  struggles  made  by 
Spaniards  within  our  own  memory  we  have  seen  the  revival  of  that 
lofty  sentiment ; while  amongst  the  descendants  of  Spaniards  in 
the  provinces  of  South  America,  called  into  existence  in  some  sort 
by  yourselves,  we  behold  no  religion  but  the  Catholic,  and  no  gov- 
ernment of  which  the  principle  is  not  founded  in  the  supremacy  of 
the  people.  Republic  after  republic  has  arisen  at  your  bidding 
through  that  immeasurable  expanse,  and  it  is  scarce  an  exaggeration 
to  say  (if  I may  allude  to  a noble  passage  in  one  of  the  greatest 
writers  of  our  time)  that  liberty,  with  her  “ meteor  standard  ” un- 
furled upon  the  Andes, 


“ Looks  from  her  throne  of  clouds  o’er  half  the  world. 


Richard  Lalor  Sheil. 


489 


False,  I repeat  it  with  all  the  vehemence  of  indignant  asseveration, 
utterly  false  is  the  charge  habitually  preferred  against  the  religion 
which  Englishmen  have  laden  with  penalties,  and  have  marked  witli 
degradation.  I can  bear  any  other  charge  but  this — to  any  other 
charge  I can  listen  with  endurance.  Tell  me  that  I prostrate  myself 
before  a sculptured  marble  ; tell  me  that  to  a canvas  glowing  with 
the  imagery  of  heaven  I bend  my  knee  ; tell  me  that  my  faith  is  my 
perdition  ; and,  as  you  traverse  the  churchyards  in  which  your  fore- 
fathers are  buried,  pronounce  upon  those  who  have  lain  there  for 
many  hundred  years  a fearful  and  appalling  sentence  ; yes,  call  what 
I regard  as  the  truth  not  only  an  error,  'but  a sin  to  which  mercy  shall 
not  bo  extended ; all  this  will  I bear — to  all  this  will  I submit — nay, 
at  all  this  I will  but  smile  ; but  do  not  tell  me  that  I am  in  heart 
and  creed  a slave  ; that  my  countrymen  cannot  brook ; in  their  own 
bosoms  they  carry  the  high  consciousness  that  never  was  imputation 
more  foully  false,  or  more  detestably  calumnious.  I do  not  believe 
that  with  the  passion  for  true  liberty  a nation  was  ever  more  enthu- 
siastically inspired,  never  were  men  more  resolved,  never  were  men 
more  deserving  to  be  free,  than  the  nation  in  whose  oppression,  fatally 
to  Ireland  and  to  themselves,  the  statesmen  of  England  have  so 
madly  persevered. 

What  have  been  the  results  of  that  system  which  you  have  been 
this  day  called  together  to  sustain  ? You  behold  in  Ireland  a beau- 
tiful country,  with  wonderful  advantages  agricultural  and  commer- 
cial— a resting-place  for  trade  on  its  way  to  either  hemisphere  ; in- 
dented with  havens,  watered  by  numerous  rivers;  with  a fortunate 
climate  in  which  fertility  is  raised  upon  a rich  soil,  and  inhabited  by 
a bold,  intrepid,  and,  with  all  their  faults,  a generous  and  enthusi- 
astic people.  Such  is  Ireland  as  God  made  her ; what  is  Ireland  as  you 
have  made  her  ? This  fine  country  swarming  with  a population 
the  most  miserable  in  Europe,  of  whose  wretchedness,  if  you  are  the 
authors,  you  are  beginning  to  be  the  victims ; .the  poisoned  chalice 
is  returned  in  its  just  circulation  to  your  lips.  Harvests  the  most 
abundant  are  reaped  by  men  with  starvation  in  their  faces ; all  the 
great  commercial  facilities  of  the  country  are  lost;  the  rivers  that 
should  circulate  opulence  and  turn  the  machinery  of  a thousand 
manufactures  flow  to  the  ocean  without  wafting  a boat  or  turning  a 
wheel ; the  wave  breaks  in  solitude  in  the  silent  magnificence  of  de- 
serted and  shipless  harbors.  In  place  of  being  a source  of  wealth 
and  revenue  to  the  empire,  Ireland  cannot  defray  its  own  expenses  ; 


490  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 

her  discontent  costs  millions  of  money ; she  debilitates  and  endangers 
England.  The  great  mass  of  her  population  are  alienated  and  disso- 
ciated from  the  state ; the  influence  of  the  constituted  and  legitimate 
authorities  is  gone  ; a strange,  anomalous,  and  unexampled  kind  of 
government  has  sprung  up  and  exercises  a despotic  sway ; while  the 
class,  inferior  in  numbers,  but  accustomed  to  authority,  and  infuriated 
at  its  loss,  are  thrown  into  formidable  reaction ; the  most  ferocious 
passions  rage  from  one  extremity  of  the  country  to  the  other.  Hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  men  arrayed  with  badges  gather  in  the 
South,  and  the  smaller  faction,  with  discipline  and  with  arms,  are 
marshalled  in  the  North  ; the  country  is  like  one  vast  magazine  of 
powder,  which  a spark  might  ignite  into  an  explosion,  and  of  which 
England  would  not  only  feel,  but,  perhaps,  never  recover  from  the 
shock. 

And  is  this  state  of  things  to  be  permitted  to  continue  ? It  is  only 
requisite  to  present  the  question  in  order  that  all  men  should  an- 
swer, something  must  be  done.  What  is  to  be  done  ? Are  you  to 
re-enact  the  penal  code  ? Are  you  to  deprive  Catholics  of  their 
properties,  to  shut  up  their  schools,  to  drive  them  from  the  bar,  to 
strip  them  of  the  elective  franchise,  and  reduce  them  to  Egyptian 
bondage  ? It  is  easy  for  some  visionary  in  oppression  to  imagine 
these  things.  In  the  drunkenness  of  sacerdotal  debauch  men 
have  been  found  to  give  vent  to  such  sanguinary  aspirations,  and 
the  teachers  of  the  Gospel,  the  ministers  B of  a mild  and  merciful 
Redeemer,  have  uttered  in  the  midst  of  their  ferocious  wassails  the 
bloody  orison  that  their  country  should  be  turned  into  one  vast 
field  of  massacre,  and  that  upon  the  pile  of  carnage  the  genius  of 
Orange  ascendancy  should  be  enthroned.  But  these  men  are  maniacs 
in  ferocity,  whose  appetites  for  blood  you  will  scarcely  undertake  to 
satiate.  You  shrink  from  the  extirpation  of  a whole  people.  Even 
suppose  that,  with  an  impunity  as  ignominious  as  it  would  be  san- 
guinary, that  horrible  crime  could  be  effected,  then  you  must  needs 
ask,  What  is  to  be  done  ? In  answering  that  question  you  will  not 
dismiss  from  your  recollection  that  the  greatest  statesmen  who  have 
for  the  last  fifty  years  directed  your  counsels  and  conducted  the 
business  of  this  mighty  empire  concurred  in  the  opinion  that  with- 
out a concession  of  the  Catholic  claims  nothing  could  be  done  for 
Ireland. 

5 Ministers  of  the  Protestant  Church,  established  by  law— and  it  might  be  added,  with 
due  reverence,  the  devil— in  Ireland. 


Richard  Lalor  Shell. 


49 1 


Burke,  tlie  foe  to  revolution,  Fox,  the  asserter  of  popular  right, 
Pitt,  the  prop  of  the  prerogative,  concurred.  With  reference  to  this 
great  question  their  minds  met  in  a deep  confluence.  See  to  what  a 
conclusion  you  must  arrive  when  you  denounce  the  advocates  of 
emancipation.  Your  anathema  will  take%  in  one-half  of  Westmin- 
ster Abbey ; and  is  not  the  very  dust  into  which  the  tongues  and 
hearts  of  Pitt,  and  Burke,  and  Fox  have  mouldered  better  than  the 
living  hearts  and  tongues  of  those  who  have  survived  them  ? If  you 
were  to  try  the  question  by  the  authorities  of  the  dead,  and  by  those 
voices  which  may  be  said  to  issue  from  the  grave,  how  would  you 
decide  ? If,  instead  of  counting  votes  in  St.  Stephen’s,  you  were  to 
count  the  tombs  in  the  mausoleum  beside  it,  how  would  the  division 
of  the  great  departed  stand  ? There  would  be  a majority  of  sepul- 
chres inscribed  with  immortal  names  upon  our  side.  But  suppos- 
ing that  authority,  that  the  coincidence  of  the  wisest  and  of  the 
best  in  favor  of  Ireland,  was  to  be  held  in  no  account,  consider  how 
the  religious  disqualifications  must  necessarily  operate.  Can  that 
be  a wise  course  of  government  which  creates  not  an  aristocracy  of 
opulence,  and  rank,  and  talent,  but  an  aristocracy  in  religion,  and 
places  seven  millions  of  people  at  the  feet  of  a few  hundred  thou- 
sand ? Try  this  fashion  of  government  by  a very  obvious  test,  and 
make  the  case  your  own.  If  a few  hundred  thousand  Presbyterians 
stood  towards  you  in  the  relation  in  which  the  Irish  Protestants  stand 
towards  the  Catholics,  would  you  endure  it  ? Would  you  brook  a sys- 
tem under  which  Episcopalians  should  be  rendered  incapable  of 
holding  seats  in  the  House  of  Commons,  should  be  excluded  from 
sheriffships  and  corporate  offices,  and  from  the  bench  of  justice, 
and  from  all  the  higher  offices  in  the  administration  of  the  law ; and 
should  be  tried  by  none  but  Presbyterian  juries,  flushed  with  the 
insolence  of  power  and  infuriated  with  all  the  ferocity  of  passion  ? 
How  would  you  brook  the  degradation  which  would  arise  from  such 
a system,  and  the  scorn  and  contumelies  which  would  flow  from  it  ? 
Would  you  listen  with  patience  to  men  who  told  you  that  there  was 
no  grievance  in  all  this,  that  your  complaints  were  groundless,  and 
that  the  very  right  of  murmuring  ought  to  be  taken  away  ? Are 
Irishmen  and  Koman  Catholics  so  differently  constituted  from  your- 
selves that  they  are  to  behold  nothing  but  blessings  in  a system 
which  you  would  look  upon  as  an  unendurable  wrong  ? 

Protestants  and  Englishmen,  however  debased  you  may  deem  our 
country,  believe  me  that  we  have  enough  of  human  nature  left 


49 2 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

within  us — we  have  enough  of  the  spirit  of  manhood,  all  Irishmen 
as  we  are,  to  resent  a usage  of  this  kind.  Its  results  are  obvious. 
The  nation  is  divided  into  two  castes.  The  powerful  and  the  pri- 
vileged few  are  patricians  in  religion,  and  trample  upon  and  despise 
the  plebeian  Christianity  of  the  millions  who  are  laid  prostrate  at 
their  feet.  Every  Protestant  thinks  himself  a Catholic’s  better ; 
and  every  Protestant  feels  himself  the  member  of  a privileged  cor- 
poration. Judges,  sheriffs,  crown  counsel,  crown  attorneys,  juries 
are  Protestants  to  a man.  What  confidence  can  a Catholic  have  in 
the  administration  of  public  justice  ? We  have  the  authority  of  an 
eminent  Irish  judge,  the  late  Mr.  Fletcher,  who  declared  that  in  the 
North  the  Protestants  were  uniformly  acquitted,  and  the  Catholics 
were  as  undeviatingly  condemned.  A body  of  armed  Orangemen 
fall  upon  and  put  to  death  a defenceless  Catholic ; they  are  put 
upon  their  trial,  and  when  they  raise  their  eyes  and  look  upon  the 
jury,  as  they  are  commanded  to  do,  they  see  twelve  of  their  brethren 
in  massacre  empanelled  for  their  trial ; and,  after  this,  I shall  be 
told  that  all  the  evils  of  Catholic  disqualification  lie  in  the  disap- 
pointed longing  of  some  dozen  gentlemen  after  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ! No ; it  is  the  bann,  the  opprobrium,  the  brand,  the  note 
and  mark  of  dishonor,  the  scandalous  partiality,  the  flagitious  bias, 
the  sacrilegious  and  perjured  leaning,  and  the  monstrous  and  hydra- 
headed injustice  that  constitute  the  grand  and  essential  evils  of  the 
country.  And  you  think  it  wonderful  that  we  should  be  indignant 
at  all  this.  You  marvel  and  are  amazed  that  we  are  hurried  into 
the  use  of  rash  and  vehement  phrases.  Have  we  alone  forgotten 
the  dictates  of  charity  ? Have  our  opponents  been  always  distin- 
guished by  their  meekness  and  forbearance  ? Have  no  exasperating 
expressions,  no  galling  taunts,  no  ferocious  menaces  ever  escaped 
from  them  ? 

Look  to  the  Brunswick  orgies  of  Ireland,  and  behold  not  merely 
the  torturers  of  ’98,  who,  like  retired  butchers,  feel  the  want  of 
their  old  occupation  and  long  for  the  political  shambles  again,  but 
to  the  ministers  of  the  Gospel,  by  whom  their  libations  to  the 
Moloch  of  faction,  in  the  revelries  of  a sanguinary  ascendancy,  are 
ferociously  poured  out.  Make  allowances  for  the  excesses  into 
which,  with  much  provocation,  we  may  be  hurried,  and  pardon  us 
when  you  recollect  how,  under  the  same  circumstances,  you  would, 
in  all  likelihood,  feel  yourselves.  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  while 
ou  are  conscious  that  we  have  much  to  suffer,  you  owe  it  to  your  own 


Richard  Lalor  Sheil. 


493 


safety  to  exclude  us  from  power.  We  have  power  already — the 
power  to  do  mischief ; give  us  that  of  doing  good.  Disarray  us — 
dissolve  us — break  up  our  confederacy — take  from  the  law  (the 
great  conspirator)  its  combining  and  organizing  quality,  and  we 
shall  no  longer  be  united  by  the  bad  chain  of  slavery,  but  by  the 
natural  bonds  of  allegiance  and  contentment.  You  fear  our  possible 
influence  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Don’t  you  dread  our  actual 
influence  beyond  its  precincts  ? Catholics  out  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, we  should  be  citizens  within  it.  It  has  been  sometimes  insisted 
that  we  aim  at  the  political  exaltation  of  our  Church  upon  the  ruins 
of  the  Establishment — that  once  emancipated  we  should  proceed  to 
strip  your  clergy,  and  to  possess  ourselves  of  the  opulence  of  an  anti- 
apostolic  and  anti-scriptural  Establishment.  Never  was  there  a more 
unfounded  imputation.  The  whole  body  of  the  Irish  Catholics  look 
upon  a wealthy  priesthood  with  abhorrence.  They  do  not  desire  that 
their  bishops  should  be  invested  with  pontifical  gorgeousness.  When 
a bill  was  introduced  in  order  to  make  a small,  and  no  more  than  a 
decent,  provision  for  the  Catholic  clergy,  did  they  not  repudiate  the 
offer,  and  prefer  their  honorable  poverty,  and  the  affections  of  the 
people,  to  the  seductions  of  the  crown  ? How  did  the  people  act  ? 
Although  a provision  for  the  priesthood  would  relieve  them  from  a 
burden,  did  they  not  deprecate  all  connection  with  power  ? The 
Catholics  of  Ireland  know  that  if  their  clergy  were  endowed  with 
the  wealth  of  the  Establishment,  they  would  become  a profligate 
corporation,  pampered  with  luxury,  swelling  with  sacerdotal  pride, 
and  presenting  in  their  lives  a monstrous  contrast  with  that  sim- 
plicity and  that  poverty  of  which  they  are  now  as  well  the  practisers 
as  the  teachers.  They  know  that  in  place  of  being,  as  they  now 
are,  the  indefatigable  instructors  of  the  peasantry,  their  consolers  in 
affliction,  their  resource  in  calamity,  their  preceptors  and  their 
models  in  religion,  their  visitors  in  sickness,  and  their  companions 
at  the  bed  of  death,  they  would  become  equally  insolent  to  the 
humble  and  sycophantic  to  the  great — flatterers  at  the  noble’s  table 
and  extortioners  in  the  poor  man’s  hovel ; slaves  in  politics  and 
tyrants  in  demeanor,  who  from  the  porticoes  of  palaces  would  give 
their  instructions  in  humility  ; who  from  the  banquets  of  patricians 
would  prescribe  their  lessons  in  abstinence  ; and  from  the  prim- 
rose path  of  dalliance  would  point  to  the  stee|)  and  thorny  way  to 
Heaven.  Monstrous  as  the  opulence  of  the  Establishment  now  is, 
the  people  of  Ireland  would  rather  see  the  wealth  of  Protestant 


494 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


bishops  increased  tenfold,  and  another  million  of  acres  added  to 
their  episcopal  territories,  than  behold  their  pure  and  simple  priest- 
hood degraded  from  their  illustrious  humility  to  that  dishonorable 
and  anti-Christian  ostentation  which,  if  it  were  once  established, 
would  be  sure  to  characterize  their  Church.  I speak  the  sentiments 
of  the  whole  body  of  my  countrymen  when  I solemnly  and  emphati- 
cally reiterate  my  asseveration  that  there  is  nothing  which  the 
Roman  Catholic  body  would  regard  with  more  abhorrence  than  the 
transfer  of  the  enormous  and  corrupting  revenues  of  the  Establish- 
ment to  a clergy  who  owe  their  virtues  to  their  poverty,  and  the 
attachment  of  the  people  to  their  dignified  dependence  upon  the 
people  for  their  support. 

I should  have  done;  and  yet  before  I retire  from  your  presence 
indulge  me  so  far  as  to  permit  me  to  press  one  remaining  topic  upon 
you.  I have  endeavored  to  show  you  that  you  have  mistaken  the 
character  and  political  principles  of  my  religion  ; I have  endeavored 
to  make  you  sensible  of  the  miserable  condition  of  my  country  ; to 
impress  upon  you  the  failure  of  all  the  means  which  have  been 
hitherto  tried  to  tranquillize  that  unhappy  country,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  adopting  some  expedient  to  alleviate  its  evils.  I have  dwelt 
upon  the  concurrence  of  great  authorities  in  favor  of  concession, 
the  little  danger  that  is  to  be  apprehended  from  that  concession, 
and  the  great  benefit  which  would  arise  from  religious  peace  in  Ire- 
land. I might  enlarge  upon  those  benefits,  and  show  you  that  when 
factions  were  reconciled,  when  the  substantial  causes  of  animosity 
were  removed,  the  fierce  passions  which  agitate  the  country  would 
be  laid  at  rest ; that  English  capital  would,  in  all  likelihood,  flow 
into  Ireland ; that  English  habits  would  gradually  arise ; that  a 
confidence  in  the  administration  of  justice  would  grow  up  ; that  the 
people,  instead  of  appealing  to  arms  for  redress,  would  look  to  the 
public  tribunals  as  the  only  arbiters  of  right ; and  that  the  obsta- 
cles which  now  stand  in  the  way  of  education  would  be  removed ; 
that  the  fierceness  of  polemics  would  be  superceded  by  that  charity 
which  the  Christian  extends  to  all  mankind  ; that  a reciprocal  sen- 
timent of  kindness  would  take  place  between  the  two  islands  ; that 
a real  union,  not  depending  upon  acts  of  Parliament,  but  upon 
mutual  interest  and  affection,  would  be  permanently  established ; 
that  the  empire  would  be  consolidated,  and  all  dangers  from  the 
enemies  of  Great  Britain  would  disappear.  I might  point  out  to 
you,  what  is  obvious  enough,  that  if  Ireland  be  allowed  to  remain 


'Richard  Lalor  Sheil. 


495 


as  it  now  is,  at  no  distant  period  the  natural  foes  of  Great  Britain 
may  make  that  unfortunate  country  the  field  of  some  formidable 
enterprise.  I might  draw  a picture  of  the  consequences  which 
would  arise  if  an  enormous  population  were  to  be  roused  into  a con- 
current and  simultaneous  movement ; but  I forbear  from  pressing 
such  considerations  upon  you,  because  I had  much  rather  rely  upon 
your  own  lofty-mindedness  than  upon  any  terrible  contingency.  I 
therefore  put  it  to  you,  that,  independently  of  every  consideration  of 
expediency,  it  is  unworthy  of  you  to  persevere  in  a system  of  prac- 
tical religious  intolerance  which  Roman  Catholic  states,  who  hold 
to  you  a fine  example  in  this  regard  at  least,  have  abandoned.  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  the  Catholic  religion  was  a persecuting 
religion.  How  easily  I could  retort  on  you  the  charge  of  persecution 
— remind  you  that  the  early  reformers,  who  set  up  a claim  to  liberty 
of  conscience  for  themselves,  did  not  indulge  others  in  a similar 
luxury — tell  you  that  Calvin,  having  obtained  a theological  master- 
dom  in  Geneva,  offered  up  the  screams  of  Servetus  to  the  God  of 
mercy  and  of  love ; that  even  your  own  Cranmer,  who  was  himself 
a martyr,  had  first  inflicted  what  he  afterwards  suffered,  and  that 
this. father  of  your  church,  whose  hand  was  indeed  a guilty  one, 
had,  even  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Sixth,  accelerated  the  progress 
of  heretics  to  immortality,  and  sent  them  through  fire  to  Heaven. 
But  the  truth  is  that  both  parties  have,  in  the  paroxysms  of  reli- 
gious frenzy,  committed  the  most  execrable  crimes,  and  it  might  be 
difficult,  if  their  misdeeds  were  to  be  weighed,  to  adjust  the  balance 
of  atrocity  between  them.  But  Catholics  and  Protestants  have 
changed,  and  with  the  alteration  of  time  we  ourselves  have 
undergone  a salutary  reformation.  Through  the  whole  continent 
religious  distinctions  have  begun  to  vanish,  and  freedom  of  con- 
science is  almost  universally  established.  It  is  deplorable  that  Eng- 
land should  be  almost  the  only  country  where  such  disqualifications 
are  maintained. 

In  Erance,  where  the  religion  of  the  state  is  that  of  Rome,  all 
men  are  admissible  to  power,  and  no  sort  of  sectarian  distinction  is 
instituted  by  the  law.  The  third  article  of  the  French  charter  pro- 
vides that  every  French  citizen,  no  matter  of  what  denomination, 
shall  be  capable  of  holding  every  office  in  the  state.  The  Chamber 
of  Deputies  is  filled  with  Protestants,  who  are  elected  by  Roman 
Catholics ; and  Protestants  have  held  places  in  the  Cabinet  of 
France.  In  Hungary,  in  the  year  1791,  Protestants  were  placed  by 


96 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


a Roman  Catholic  government  on  a perfect  level  with  their  fellow- 
citizens.  In  Bavaria  the  same  principle  of  toleration  was  adopted. 
Tims  the  Catholics  of  Europe  have  given  you  an  honorable  example, 
and,  while  they  have  refuted  the  imputation  of  intolerance,  have 
pronounced  upon  you  a practical  reproach.  You  are  behind  almost 
every  nation  in  Europe.  Protestant  Prussia  has  emancipated  her 
Catholic  subjects,  and  Silesia  is  free.  In  Germany  the  churches 
are  used  indiscriminately  by  Protestants  and  Catholics — the  Lutheran 
service,  in  happy  succession,  follows  the  Catholic  Mass  ; or  the 
Catholic  Mass  follows  the  Lutheran  service.  Thus  in  every  state  in 
Europe  the  spirit  of  religious  toleration  has  signally  advanced,  while 
here,  in  this  noble  island,  which  we  are  wont  to  consider  the  asylum 
of  civil  liberty,  the  genius  of  persecution  has  found  a refuge.  In 
England,  and  in  England  only,  deprivations  and  dishonor  are 
inflicted  upon  those  whose  conscience  inhibits  their  conformity  with 
the  formulas  of  your  worship;  and  a vast  body  of  Englishmen  in 
this  one  of  your  finest  counties  are  called  upon  to  offer  up  a gratui- 
tous invocation  to  the  Legislature  to  rivet  the  fetters  of  their  Catho- 
lic fellow-subjects.  Do  not  undertake  so  ungenerous  an  office,  nor 
interpose  for  the  low-hearted  purposes  of  oppression.  I have  Jieard 
since  I came  here  that  it  is  a familiar  saying  that  “ the  men  of 
Kent  have  never  been  conquered.”  That  you  will  never  be  van- 
quished in  any  encounter  where  men  shall  be  arrayed  in  arms 
against  you  is  my  belief  and  my  desire  ; but  while  in  this  regard 
you  will  always  prove  unconquered  and  unconquerable,  there 
is  one  particular  in  which  I hope  that  proof  will  be  afforded  that 
you  can  be  subdued.  Be  no  longer  invincible,  but  let  the  victory 
be  achieved  by  yourselves.  The  worst  foes  with  which  you  have  to 
contend  are  lodged  in  your  own  breasts — your  prejudices  are  the 
most  formidable  of  your  antagonists,  and  to  discomfit  them  will 
confer  upon  you  a higher  honor  than  if  in  the  shouts  of  battle  you 
put  your  enemies  to  flight.  It  is  over  your  antipathies,  national 
and  religious,  that  a masterdom  should  be  obtained  by  you,  and  you 
may  rest  assured  that  if  you  shall  vanquish  your  animosities, 
and  bring  your  passions  into  subjection,  you  will,  in  conquering 
yourselves,  extend  your  dominion  over  that  country  by  which  you 
have  been  so  long  resisted,  your  empire  over  our  feelings  will  be 
securely  established,  you  will  make  a permanent  acquisition  of  the 
affections  of  Irishmen,  and  make  our  hearts  your  own. 


Richard  Lalor  Shcil. 


49  7 


PEN-AND-INK  SKETCH  OF  DANIEL  O’CONNELL. 

[From  Shell's  “ Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar,”  vol.  i.] 

If  any  one  being  a stranger  in  Dublin  should  chance,  as  you  re- 
turn upon  a winter’s  morning  from  one  of  the  “ small  and  early” 
parties, of  that  raking  metropolis — that  is  to  say,  between  the  hours 
of  five  and  six  o’clock — to  pass  along  the  south  side  of  Merrion 
Square,6  you  will  not  fail  to  observe  that  among  those  splendid 
mansions  there  is  one  evidently  tenanted  by  a person  whose  habits 
differ  materially  from  those  of  his  fashionable  neighbors.  The  half- 
open parlor  shutter  and  the  light  within  announce  that  some  one 
dwells  there  whose  time  is  too  precious  to  permit  him  to  regulate 
his  rising  with  the  sun.  Should  your  curiosity  tempt  you  to  ascend 
the  steps  and  under  cover  of  the  dark  to  reconnoitre  the  interior, 
you  will  see  a tall,  able-bodied  man  standing  at  a desk  and  im- 
mersed in  solitary  occupation.  Upon  the  wall  in  front  of  him  there 
hangs  a crucifix.  From  this  and  from  the  calm  attitude  of  the 
person  within,  and  from  a certain  monastic  rotundity  about  his 
neck  and  shoulders,  your  first  impression  will  be  that  he  must  be 
some  pious  dignitary  of  the  Church  of  Rome  absorbed  in  his  matin 
devotions. 

But  this  conjecture  will  be  rejected  almost  as  soon  as  formed. 
No  sooner  can  the  eye  take  in  the  other  furniture  of  the  apartment — 
the  book-cases,  clogged  with  tomes  in  plain  calfskin  binding,  the 
blue  covered  octavos  that  lie  about  on  the  tables  and  the  floor,  the 
reams  of  manuscript  in  oblong  folds  and  begirt  with  crimson  tape — 
than  it  becomes  evident  that  the  party  meditating  amid  such  objects 
must  be  thinking  far  more  of  the  law  than  the  prophets.  He  is 
unequivocally  a barrister,  but  apparently  of  that  homely,  chamber- 
keeping, plodding  cast  who  labor  hard  to  make  up  by  assiduity  what 
they  want  in  wit,  who  are  up  and  stirring  before  the  bird  of  the 
morning  has  sounded  the  retreat  to  the  wandering  spectre,  and  are 
already  brain-deep  in  the  dizzy  vortex  of  mortgages  and  cross-re- 
minders and  mergers  and  remitters,  while  his  clients,  still  lapped 
in  sweet  oblivion  of  the  law’s  delay,  are  fondly  dreaming  that  their 
cause  is  peremptorily  set  down  for  a final  hearing.  Having  come 
to  this  conclusion,  you  push  on  for  home,  blessing  your  stars  on  the 
way  that  you  are  not  a lawyer,  and  sincerely  compassionating  the 

9 One  of  the  principal  squares  in  Dublin.  There  O’Connell  resided  for  about  thirty 
years. 


49s 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


sedentary  drudge  whom  you  have  just  detected  in  the  performance 
of  his  cheerless  toil. 

But  should  you  happen  in  the  course  of  the  same  day  to  stroll 
down  to  the  Four  Courts,  you  will  not  he  a little  surprised  to  find 
the  object  of  your  pity  miraculously  transferred  from  the  severe  re- 
cluse of  the  morning  into  one  of  the  most  bustling,  important,  and 
joyous  personages  in  that  busy  scene.  There  you  will  be  sure  to 
see  him,  his  countenance  braced  up  and  glistening  with  health  and 
spirits,  with  a huge,  plethoric  bag,  which  his  robust  arm  can  scarce- 
ly sustain,  clasped  with  paternal  fondness  to  his  breast,  and  envi- 
roned by  a living  palisade  of  clients  and  attorneys  with  outstretched 
necks,  and  mouths  and  ears  agape  to  catch  up  any  chance-opinion 
that  may  be  coaxed  out  of  him  in  a colloquial  way,  or  listening  to 
what  the  client  relishes  still  better  (for  in  no  event  can  they  be 
slided  into  a bill  of  costs),  the  counsellor’s  bursts  of  jovial  and 
familiar  humor,  or,  when  he  touches  on  a sadder  strain,  his  pro- 
phetic assurance  that  the  hour  of  Ireland's  redemption  is  at  hand. 
You  perceive  at  once  that  you  have  lighted  upon  a great  popular 
advocate  ; and  if  you  take  the  trouble  to  follow  his  movements  for 
a couple  of  hours  through  the  several  courts,  you  will  not  fail  to 
discover  the  qualities  that  have  made  him  so — his  legal  competency, 
his  business-like  habits,  his  sanguine  temperament,  which  renders 
him  not  merely  the  advocate,  but  the  partisan  of  his  client,  his  acute- 
ness, his  fluency  of  thought  and  language,  his  unconquerable  good- 
humor,  and,  above  all,  his  versatility. 

By  the  hour  of  three,  when  the  judges  usually  rise,  you  will  have 
seen  him  go  through  a quantity  of  business  the  preparation  for  and 
the  performance  of  which  would  be  sufficient  to  wear  down  an  ordi- 
nary constitutiou,  and  you  naturally  suppose  that  the  remaining 
portion  of  the  day  must,  of  necessity,  be  devoted  to  recreation  or 
repose.  But  here  again  you  will  be  mistaken  ; for  should  you  feel 
disposed,  as  you  return  from  the  courts,  to  drop  into  any  of  the 
public  meetings  that  are  almost  daily  held  for  some  purpose, 
or  to  no  purpose,  in  Dublin,7  to  a certainty  you  will  find  the  coun- 
sellor there  before  you,  the  presiding  spirit  of  the  scene,  riding  in 
the  whirlwind  and  directing  the  storm  of  popular  debate  with  a 
strength  of  lungs  and  redundancy  of  animation  as  if  he  had  that 
moment  started  fresh  for  the  labors  of  the  day.  There  he  remains 

7 This  sketch  was  written  in  1823,  six  years  before  Catholic  emancipation  was  an  ac- 
complished fact. 


Richard  Lalor  Shell. 


499 


until,  by  dint  of  strength  or  dexterity,  he  has  carried  every  point; 
and  thence,  if  you  would  see  him  to  the  close  of  the  day’s  “ event- 
ful history,”  you  will,  in  all  likelihood,  have  to  follow  him  to  a ^pub- 
lic  dinner  from  which,  after  having  acted  a conspicuous  part  in  the 
turbulent  festivity  of  the  evening  and  thrown  off  half  a dozen 
speeches  in  praise  of  Ireland,  he  retires  at  a late  hour  to  repair  the 
wear  and  tear  of  the  day  by  a short  interval  of  repose,  and  is  sure 
to  be  found  before  daybreak  next  morning  at  his  solitary  post,  recom- 
mencing the  routine  of  his  restless  existence.  Now,  any  one  who  has 
once  seen  in  the  preceding  situations  the  able-bodied,  able-minded, 
acting,  talking,  multifarious  person  I have  been  just  describing  has 
no  occasion  to  enquire  his  name.  He  may  be  assured  that  he  is 
and  can  be  no  other  than  “Kerry’s  pride  and  Munster’s  glory,”  the 
far-famed  and  indefatigable  Daniel  O’Connell. 

His  frame  is  tall,  expanded,  and  muscular,  precisely  such  as  be- 
fits a man  of  the  people  ; for  the  physical  classes  ever  look  with 
double  confidence  and  affection  upon  a leader  who  represents  in  his 
own  person  the  qualities  upon  which  they  rely.  In  his  face  he  has 
been  equally  fortunate ; it  is  extremely  comely.  The  features  are 
at  once  soft  and  manly ; the  florid  glow  of  health  and  a sanguine 
temperament  is  diffused  over  the  whole  countenance,  which  is  na- 
tional in  the  outline,  and  beaming  with  national  emotion.  The  ex- 
pression is  open  and  confiding,  and  inviting  confidence ; there  is 
not  a trace  of  malignity  or  guile;  if  there  were,  the  bright  and 
sweet  blue  eyes,  the  most  kindly  and  honest-looking  that  can  be 
conceived,  would  repel  the  imputation.  These  popular  gifts  of  na- 
ture O’Connell  has  not  neglected  to  set  off  by  his  external  carriage 
and  deportment  ; or  perhaps  I should  rather  say  that  the  same  hand 
which  has  moulded  the  exterior  has  supersaturated  the  inner  man 
with  a fund  of  restless  propensity  which  it  is  quite  beyond  his 
power,  as  it  is  certainly  beyond  his  inclination,  to  control.  A large 
portion  of  this  is  necessarily  expended  upon  his  legal  avocations  ; 
but  the  labors  of  the  most  laborious  of  professions  cannot  tame  him 
into  repose.  After  deducting  the  daily  drains  of  the  study  and  the 
courts,  there  remains  an  ample  residuum  of  animal  spirits  and  ardor 
for  occupation,  which  go  to  form  a distinct,  and  I might  say  a pre- 
dominant character — the  political  chieftain. 

The  existence  of  this  overweening  vivacity  is  conspicuous  in 
O’Connell’s  manners  and  movements,  and  being  a popular,  and  more 
particularly  a national,  quality,  greatly  recommends  him  to  the  Irish 


5oo 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


people — “ Mobilitate  viget” — body  and  soul  are  in  a state  of  per- 
manent insurrection. 

See  him  in  the  streets  and  you  perceive  at  once  that  he 
is  a man  who  has  sworn  that  his  country’s  wrongs  shall  be 
avenged.  A Dublin  jury — if  judiciously  selected — would  find 
his  very  gait  and  gestures  to  be  high  treason  by  construction,  so 
explicitly  do  they  enforce  the  national  sentiment  of  “ Ireland  her 
own,  or  the  world  in  a blaze.”  As  he  marches  to  court,  he  shoulders 
his  umbrella  gs  if  it  were  a pike,  He  flings  out  one  factious  foot 
before  the  other  as  if  he  had  already  burst  his  bonds  and  was  kicking 
Protestant  ascendancy  before  him,  while  ever  and  anon  a demo- 
cratic, broad-shouldered  roll  of  the  upper  man  is  manifestly  an  in- 
dignant effort  to  shuffle  off  “ the  oppression  of  seven  hundred 
years.” 

This  intensely  national  sensibility  is  the  prevailing  peculiarity  in 
O’Connell’s  character ; for  it  is  not  only  when  abroad  and  in  the 
popular  gaze  that  Irish  affairs  seem  to  press  on  his  heart.  The 
same  Erin-go-bragh  feeling  follows  him  into  the  most  technical  de- 
tails of  his  forensic  occupations.  Give  him  the  most  dry  and 
abstract  position  of  the  law  to  support — the  most  remote  that  ima- 
gination can  conceive  from  the  violation  of  the  Articles  of  Limerick, 
and,  ten  to  one,  he  will  contrive  to  interweave  a patriotic  episode 
upon  those  examples  of  British  domination.  The  people  are  never 
absent  from  his  thoughts. 


SKETCH  OF  HR.  MURRAY,  CATHOLIC  ARCHBISHOP  OF  DUBLIN. 

[From  “The  Catholic  Leaders  ” in  Sheil’s  “ Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar,”  vol  i.] 

Doctor  Murray,  the  present  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  was  educa- 
ted in  the  University  of  Salamanca,  but  his  mind  is  untarnished  by 
the  smoke  of  the  scholastic  lamp,  and  he  has  a spirit  of  liberty 
within  him  which  shows  how  compatible  the  ardent  citizen  is  with 
the  enthusiastic  priest.  His  manners  are  not  at  all  Spanish,  although 
he  passed  many  years  in  Spain  under  the  tuition  of  Doctor  Curtis, 
the  Catholic  primate,  who  was  professor,  of  theology  in  Salamanca. 

Dr.  Murray  is  meek,  composed,  and  placid,  and  has  an  expression 
of  patience,  of  sweetness,  and  benignity,  united  with  strong  intel- 
lectual intimations,  which  would  fix  the  attention  of  any  ordinary 
observer  who  chanced  to  see  him  in  the  public  way.  He  has  great 
dignity  and  simplicity  of  deportment,  and  has  a bearing  befitting 


Richard  Lalor  S/icil, 


50 


his  rank,  without  the  least  touch  of  arrogance.  His  voice  is  singu- 
larly soft  and  harmonious,  and  even  in  reproof  itself  he  does  not 
put  his  Christian  gentleness  aside.  His  preaching  is  of  the  first 
order.  It  is  difficult  to  hear  his  sermons  upon  charity  without  tears ; 
and  there  is,  independently  of  the  charms  of  diction  and  the 
graces  of  elocution,  of  which  he  is  a master,  an  internal  evidence 
of  his  own  profound  conviction  of  what  he  utters  that  makes  its 
way  to  the  heart.  When  he  stands  in  the  pulpit  it  is  no  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  he  diffuses  a kind  of  piety  about  him  ; he  seems  to 
belong  to  the  holy  edifice,  and  it  may  be  said  of  him  with  perfect 
truth  : 

‘ ‘ At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place.” 

It  is  obvious  that  such  a man,  attended  by  all  the  influence  which 
his  office,  his  abilities,  and  his  apostolic  life  confer  upon  him, 
must  have  added  great  weight  to  the  proceedings  of  the  Association/ 
when,  with  a zeal  in  patriotism  corresponding  with  his  ardor  in 
religion,  he  caused  himself  to  be  enrolled  among  its  members. 

“ The  contemplation  of  the  wrongs  of  my  country,”  he  exclaimed 
at  a public  meeting  held  in  the  beautiful  and  magnificent  Catholic 
Cathedral  in  Marlborough  Street,  Dublin — “ the  contemplation  of 
the  wrongs  of  my  country  makes  my  soul  burn  within  me  ! ’’ 
As  he  spoke  thus,  he  pressed  to  his  heart  the  hand  which  the  people 
were  accustomed  to  see  exalted  from  the  altar  in  raising  the  Host  to 
Heaven.  His  fine  countenance  was  inflamed  with  emotion,  and  his 
whole  frame  trembled  under  the  dominion  of  the  vehement  feeling 
by  which  he  was  excited.8 9 

8 The  Catholic  Association. 

9 The  Most  Rev.  Daniel  Murray,  D.D.,  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  died  in  1854.  He  was  a 
sort  of  Irish  St.  Francis  de  Sales.  His  published  sermons  are  in  two  large  volumes. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


“ In  the  quality  of  a national  Irish  lyrist,  Moore  stands  absolutely  alone  and 
unapproachable.” — Shaw.1 

“ Of  all  the  song- writers  that  ever  warbled  or  chanted  or  sung,  the  best,  in  our 
estimation,  is  verily  none  other  than  Thomas  Moore  ” — Prof.  Wilson.2 

“ The  genius  of  Moore  must  ever  command  admiration.” — Archbishop  Mac- 
Hale. 

THOMAS  MOORE,  “ the  sweet  son  of  song  ” and  “ the  poet  of 
all  circles/’  was  born  in  Anngier  Street,  Dublin,  on  May  28, 
1779.  His  father  was  a respectable  grocer  and  spirit- dealer,  and 
both  his  parents  were  Catholics.  The  house  in  which  he  was  born 
and  reared  still  stands,  the  shop  being  devoted  to  the  same  unam- 
bitious department  of  commerce. 

Thomas  began  rhyming  at  so  early  an  age  that  he  was  never 
able  to  fix  the  date  of  his  first  effusions.  Of  him,  as  of  the  Catholic 
poet  Pope,  it  might  indeed  be  said : 

As  yet  a child,  and  all  unknown  to  fame, 

He  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came.” 

He  was  but  a mere  lad  when  he  indited  the  following  to  the  editor 
of  a Dublin  magazine : 

“ Sept.  11,  1793. 

“ To  the  Editor  of  the  Anthologice  Hibernica: 

“ Sir  : If  the  following  attempts  of  a youthful  muse  seem  worthy 
of  a place  in  your  magazine,  by  inserting  them  you  will  much 
oblige  a constant  reader. 

“ Th — m — s M — RE.” 

With  this  note  two  poems  were  enclosed.  We  give  one: 

“A  PASTORAL  BALLAD. 

“ My  gardens  are  covered  with  flowers, 

My  vines  are  all  loaded  with  grapes, 

Nature  sports  in  my  fountains  and  bowers, 

And  assumes  all  her  beautiful  shapes. 

1 Shaw  was  an  Englishman.  8 Wilson  was  a Scotchman. 


502 


Thomas  Moore . 


503 


“ The  shepherds  admire  my  lays, 

When  I pipe  they  all  flock  to  the  song  ; 

They  deck  me  with  laurels  and  bays, 

And  list  to  me  all  the  day  long. 

“ But  their  laurels  and  praises  are  vain, 

They’ve  no  joy  or  delight  for  me  now  ; 

For  Celia  despises  the  strain, 

And  that  withers  the  wreath  on  my  brow.” 

Those,  certainly,  are  good  lines  for  a boy  of  only  fourteen.  In  due 
time  they  appeared  in  the  magazine,  and  young  Moore  was  de- 
lighted to  see  his  productions  in  print. 

His  first  master  was  Mr.  Samuel  Whyte.  This  gentleman  had  a 
great  taste  for  poetry  and  the  drama,  and  our  young  poet  soon  be- 
came one  of  his  favorite  pupils,  unlike  the  famous  Eichard  Brins- 
ley Sheridan,  who,  before  Moore’s  day,  had  received,  as  the  most 
incorrigible  of  dunces,  many  and  many  a sound  birching  at  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Whyte. 

Moore’s  father  was  a warm  and  patriotic  Irishman,  and  the  son 
was  not  slow  to  catch  the  spirit  of  his  parent.  The  times  were 
stirring  and  dangerous.  The  French  Kevolution  had  shook  Europe. 
Ireland  but  yearned  for  some  opportunity  to  throw  off  the  hated 
shackles  in  which  English  tyranny  had  bound  ber  hand  and  foot. 
The  United  Irishmen — that  band  of  gallant  men — were  daily  grow- 
ing more  restive.  Moore  was  thus  early  initiated  into  rebellion ; in 
fact,  his  fellow-student  and  bosom  friend  was  no  other  than  Kobert 
Emmett.  He  was  a member  of  the  patriotic  debating-clubs  and  a 
contributor  to  the  Press,  the  organ  of  the  United  Irishmen.  One 
of  his  fiery  letters  was  even  noticed  in  Parliament.  He  was  sus- 
pected, examined  before  the  Vice-Chancellor,  but  nothing  could  be 
proved  against  him.  His  mother,  a woman  of  excellent  sense  and 
judgment,  now  warned  him  to  be  prudent.  Her  advice  prevailed, 
and  perhaps  saved  the  future  author  of  the  “ Irish  Melodies  ” from 
the  unhappy  fate  of  the  brave  Eobert  Emmett. 

An  act  of  Parliament  in  1793  partly  opened  the  doors  of  Dublin 
University  to  Catholics.  The  following  year  Moore  entered  Trinity 
College.  He  was  a hard-working  student  whose  diligence  was 
crowned  by  success.  “And,”  says  one  of  his  biographers,  “while 
engaged  with  his  classics  at  the  university,  at  home  he  was  learning 
Italian  from  a priest,  French  from  one  of  the  many  emigrants  who 
sought  refuge  on  our  shores  during  that  unhappy  time  for  their 


504 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


own  country,  and  pianoforte  music  from  bis  sister’s  teacher.”  In 
1799  Moore  left  his  famous  Alma  Mater,  taking  the  degree  of  B,A. 

He  at  once  started  for  London,  a translation  of  Anacreon’s  Odes  in 
his  hands,  with  the  intention  of  entering  himself  as  a law  student  in 
the  Middle  Temple.  In  his  translation  of  Anacreon  Moore  exhibits  a 
very  great  extent  of  reading  and  no  little  proficiency  in  Greek  phi- 
lology. He  was  also  more  lucky  than  most  of  the  authors  who  have 
sought  the  mighty  city  with  nothing  but  their  brains  for  a fortune. 
In  Lord  Moira  he  found  a kind  friend.  This  nobleman  obtained 
him  permission  to  dedicate  his  Odes  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.3  This 
was  his  first  step  on  the  road  to  fame  and  success.  But  it  was  fatal 
to  his  law  studies,  and  Blackstone  was  thrown  aside  for  the  Muses. 

In  1801  appeared  Moore’s  first  volume  of  original  verses.  It  was 
entitled  “The  Poetical  Works  of  the  late  Thomas  Little.”  While 
there  was  much  that  was  meritorious  in  this  volume,  it  also  con- 
tained many  pieces  quite  loose  and  immoral  in  tone.  In  after-life 
Moore  thought  of  “those  productions  with  feelings  of  shame.” 

In  1803  our  poet  received  an  appointment  under  the  Government 
as  Registrar  to  the  Court  of  Admiralty  in  the  island  of  Bermuda. 
The  following  year  he  arrived  at  his  post.  In  a few  months,  how- 
ever, he  left  a deputy  to  perform  his  duties,  and  began  a tour 
through  the  United  States  and  Canada.  It  appears  there  was 
only  one  city  that  pleased  him  in  this  Republic.  Writing  to  his 
mother  from  Passaic  Falls  in  June,  1804,  he  says  : “ The  only  place 
which  I have  seen  that  I had  one  wish  to  pause  in  was  Philadel- 
phia.” It  is  a pity  he  did  not  live  to  see  it  1876. 

He  wrote  some  fine  pieces  of  poetry  during  this  journey,  as 
“Alone  by  the  Schuylkill,”  “ Lines  written  at  the  Cohoes,”  the 
“ Canadian  Boat- Song,”  and  his  letter  in  verse  to  his  sister,  Miss 
Moore,  in  which  he  says  : 

“ In  days,  my  Kate,  when  life  was  new, 

When  lulled  with  innocence  and  you, 

I heard  in  home’s  beloved  shade 
The  din  the  world  at  distance  made. 

11  Yet  now,  my  Kate,  a gloomy  sea 
Rolls  wide  between  that  home  and  me  ; 

The  moon  may  thrice  be  born  and  die 
Ere  even  your  seal  can  reach  my  eye.” 


3 Afterwards  George  IV. 


Thomas  Moore . 


505 


There  were  no  railroads  or  steamships  in  those  days,  and  even 
poets  were  obliged  to  move  slowly  along. 

Later  in  life,  when  referring  to  his  American  visit,  he  would 
boast  of  his  introduction  to  the  illustrious  Thomas  Jefferson,  ex- 
claiming with  enthusiasm  : “ I had  the  honor  of  shaking  hands  with 
the  man  who  wrote  the  Declaration  of  American  Independence.” 

In  1806  he  published  his  “Epistles,  Odes,  and  other  Poems.’’1 
Jeffrey,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  treated  the  book  with  merciless 
severity.  Moore  took  mortal  offence,  and  nothing  but  blood  could 
wash  out  the  critic’s  crime.  Moore  challenged.  Jeffrey  felt  bound 
to  give  him  satisfaction.  A duel  was  the  result,  but  the  seconds 
managed  to  put  no  lead  into  the  pistols,  and,  of  course,  there  was 
nothing  but  smoke.  The  combatants  were  obliged  to  laugh.  They 
shook  hands,  and  to  the  end  of  their  lives  there  were  no  more  firm 
friends  than  Thomas  Moore  and  Lord  Jeffrey. 

A sneering  allusion  of  Lord  Byron  in  his  “English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers  ” was  nearly  the  cause  of  another  duel.  Moore 
demanded  an  apology.  A dinner  and  some  explanations  made  the 
affair  all  right.  The  intimacy  thus  began  soon  ripened  into  firm 
friendship. 

In  1807  Moore  began  his  immortal  “ Irish  Melodies.” 4 One  hun- 
dred and  twenty-four  in  number,  they  were  composed  at  intervals 
covering  over  a quarter  of  a century.  Mr.  Power,  a musical  pub- 
lisher, offered  to  pay  him  $2,500  a year,  during  the  time  he  would 
be  occupied  in  composing  them.  Dr.  R.  S.  Mackenzie  computes 
that  he  received  $75,000  for  the  “Melodies.”  This  is  about  $30  a 
line.  The  musical  accompaniments  were  supplied  by  Sir  John 
Stephenson.  What  Moore  accomplished  by  those  matchless  songs 
is  thus  truthfully  and  beautifully  referred  to  by  himself : 

“ Dear  harp  of  my  country,  in  darkness  I found  thee, 

The  cold  chains  of  silence  had  hung  o’er  thee  long, 

When  proudly,  my  own  island  harp,  I unbound  thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  cords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song.” 

“Of  a theatrical  turn,”  says  one  of  his  biographers,  “Moore 
acted  well  in  private  drama,  in  which  the  gentlemen  were  amateurs 
and  the  female  parts  were  personated  by  professional  actresses. 

4 Moore’s  “ Irish  Melodies  ” have  been  translated  into  the  principal  languages  of  Eu- 
rope. They  were  also  translated  into  Latin,  and  the  venerable  Archbishop  MacHale, 
great  prelate  aDd  poet  that  he  is,  rendered  them  into  the  ancient  and  beautiful  language 
of  Ireland.  £ae  sketch  of  Archbishop  MacHale. 


506  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Thus  playing  in  a cast  with  Miss  Dykes,  the  daughter  of  an  Irish 
actor,  Moore  fell  in  love  with  her  and  married  her  on  the  25th  of 
March,  1811.”  It  is  but  right  to  add  that  this  young  lady  proved 
a sensible,  loving,  and  most  devoted  wife.  Never  did  the  domestic 
hearth  of  a literary  man  exhibit  a more  perfect  picture  of  household 
comfort. 

Moore  now  settled  down  to  literature  as  a profession.  “ Lalla 
Rookli,” 6 his  charming  versified  Eastern  romance,  appeared  in  1817. 
Alter  this  followed  the  “Life  of  Sheridan”  ; “The  Epicurean,”  a 
beautiful  Egyptian  tale  of  early  Christian  times;  “ Life  of  Byron”  ; 
“Memoirs  of  Captain  Bock”;  “Memoir  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzge- 
rald”; “Travels  of  an  Irish  Gentleman  in  search  of  a Keligion”; 
“ History  of  Ireland,”  and  various  other  productions. 

During  the  last  twenty-nine  years  of  his  life  Moore  lived  in  the 
quiet  seclusion  of  Sloperton  Cottage,  near  Devizes,  England.  Here, 
in  1832,  he  was  visited  by  Gerald  Griffin,  who  had  been  commis- 
sioned by  the  electors  of  the  city  of  Limerick  to  request  Moore  to 
stand  for  the  representation  of  that  city  in  Parliament.  The  poet 
declined.  Griffin,  in  a letter  to  a lady  friend,  gives  us  a peep  at  the 
celebrated  author  of  the  “Irish  Melodies”  at  home.  “ In  the  morn- 
ing,” he  writes,  “we6  set  off  to  Sloperton;  drizzling  rain,  but  a 
delightful  country;  such  a gentle  shower  as  that  through  which  he 
looked  at  Innisf alien — his  farewell  look.  And  we  drove  away  until 
we  came  to  a cottage,  a cottage  of  gentility,  with  two  gateways  and 
pretty  grounds  about  it.  We  alighted  and  knocked  at  the  hall-door; 
and  there  was  dead  silence,  and  we  whispered  one  another ; and  my 
nerves  thrilled  as  the  wind  rustled  in  the  creeping  shrubs  that 
graced  the  retreat  of  Moore.  I wonder  I ever  stood  it  at  all,  and  I 
an  Irishman,  too,  and  singing  Ms  songs  since  I was  the  height  of 
my  knee.  The  door  opened  and  a young  woman  appeared.  ‘Is 
Mr.  Moore  at  home  ? ’ ‘ I’ll  see,  sir.  What  name  shall  I say,  sir  ? ’ 

“Well,  not  to  be  too  particular,  we  were  shown  up-stairs,  where 
we  found  our  hero  in  his  study,  a table  before  him  covered  with 
books  and  papers,  a drawer  half  open  and  stuffed  with  letters,  a 
piano,  also  open,  at  a little  distance ; and  the  thief  himself,  a little 
man,  but  full  of  spirit,  with  eyes,  hands,  feet,  and  frame  for  ever  in 
motion,  looking  as  if  it  would  be  a feat  for  him  to  sit  for  thre« 
minutes  quiet  in  his  chair.  I am  no  great  observer  of  proportions, 

6 This  poem  was  translated  into  the  Persian  language. 

6 Griffin  and  his  brother. 


Thomas  Moore. 


507 


but  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  a neat  made  little  fellow,  tidily  buttoned 
up,  young  as  fifteen  at  heart,  though  with  hair  that  reminded  me 
of  the  ‘ Alps  in  the  sunset’ ; not  handsome,  perhaps,  but  something 
in  the  whole  cut  of  him  that  pleased  me ; finished  as  an  actor,  but 
without  an  actor’s  affectation ; easy  as  a gentleman,  but  without 
some  gentlemen’s  formality ; in  a word,  as  people  say  when  they 
find  their  brains  begin  to  run  aground  at  the  fag  end  of  a magnifi- 
cent period,  we  found  him  a hospitable,  warm-hearted  Irishman,  as 
pleasant  as  could  be  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  others  so.  Need 
I tell  you  that  we  spent  the  day  delightfully,  chiefly  in  listening  to 
his  innumerable  jests  and  admirable  stories  and  beautiful  similes, 
beautiful  and  original  as  those  he  throws  into  his  songs  and  anec- 
dotes, that  would  make  the  Danes  laugh  ? ” 

Moore’s  last  years  were  unhappily  clouded  by  mental  infirmity. 
He  died  at  Sloperton  Cottage  in  February,  1852. 

That  man  must,  indeed,  be  a soulless  clod  of  earth  who  can  read 
th®  “ Irish  Melodies,”  or  hear  them  sung,  without  feeling  himself 
aroused  to  admiration.  Is  there  anything  in  the  literature  of 
Europe  or  America  to  equal  them?  As  an  instance,  take  “The 
Meeting  of  the  Waters.”  The  words  are  exquisitely  beautiful,  the 
calm  sweetness  of  the  melody  touches  the  very  depths  of  the  soul, 
and,  when  played,  the  music  strikes  the  ear  as  something  almost 
celestial.  The  entrancing  beauty  and  grandeur  of  this  solo,  as  once 
sung  by  a dear  friend,  yet  lingers  in  our  mind.  The  very  memory 
of  it  is  “sweet  and  mournful  to  the  soul.” 

“The  hour  is  yet  near,”  said  the  eloquent  Father  Burke,  O.P., 
“when  God  gave  to  our  native  land  its  highest  gift — a truly  poetic 
child.  When  Ireland’s  poet  came  to  find  fame  and  immortality  in 
Ireland,  nothing  was  required  of  him  but  to  take  the  ancient  melo- 
dies floating  in  the  land,  to  interpret  the  Celtic  in  which  they  were 
found  into  the  language  of  to-day,  and  Tom  Moore,  Ireland’s  poet, 
might  well  say,  as  he  took  Erin’s  harp  in  his  hand  : 

‘ Dear  harp  of  my  country,  in  darkness  I found  thee.’ 

Ireland’s  poet  was  a lover  of  his  country.  He  made  every  true 
heart  and  every  noble  mind  in  the  world  melt  into  sorrow  at  the 
contemplation  of  Ireland’s  wrongs,  and  the  injustice  that  she  suf- 
fered, as  they  came  home  to  every  sympathetic  heart  upon  the 
wings  of  Ireland’s  ancient  melody.”  That  the  influence  of  Moore’s 


5<d8  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

“ Irish  Melodies  ” hastened  Catholic  emancipation  there  can  be  no 
doubt. 

“The  ‘Irish  Melodies/”  writes  S.  C.  Hall,  “must  be  considered 
as  the  most  valuable  and  enduring  of  all  his  works ; they 

‘ Circle  his  name  with  a charm  against  death/ 

and  as  a writer  of  song  he  stands  without  a rival.  Moore  found  the 
national  music  of  his  country,  with  very  few  exceptions,  debased 
by  a union  with  words  that  were  either  unseemly  or  unintelligible. 
The  music  of  Ireland  is  now  known  and  appreciated  all  over  the 
world,  and  the  songs  of  the  Irish  poet  will  endure  as  long  as  the 
country,  the  loves  and  glories  of  which  they  commemorate.”  7 

“The  genius  of  Moore,”  says  the  illustrious  Archbishop  Mac- 
Hale,  “must  ever  command  admiration.  Its  devotion  to  the  vindi- 
cation of  the  ancient  faith  of  Ireland  and  the  character  of  its 
injured  people  must  inspire  every  Irishman  with  still  more 
estimable  feelings.  He  seized  the  harp  of  Sion  and  Erin — at  once 
the  emblem  of  piety  and  patriotism — and  gives  its  boldest  and  most 
solemn  chords  to  his  own  impassioned  inspirations  of  country  and 
religion.”  8 

“The  ‘Irish  Melodies/”  writes  Chambers,  “are  full  of  true 
feeling  and  delicacy.  By  universal  consent,  and  by  the  sure  test  of 
memory,  these  national  strains  are  the  most  popular  of  all  Moore’s 
works.  They  are  musical  almost  beyond  parallel  in  words  ; grace- 
ful in  thought  and  sentiment  ; often  tender,  pathetic,  and  heroic ; 
and  they  blend  pathetical  and  romantic  feelings  with  the  objects 
and  sympathies  of  common  life  in  language  chastened  and  refined, 
yet  apparently  so  simple  that  every  trace  of  art  has  disappeared.  ” 9 


7 “ Gems  of  the  Modem  Poets.” 

8 “ Moore’s  Irish  Melodies  Translated  into  the  Irish 

9 “ Cyclopedia  of  English  Literature,”  vol.  ii. 


PV 

J Sweet  vale  of  Avoca  I liow  calm  could  I rest  fe. 
?%In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I love  best, ' 

^ Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  ^ 
should  cease.  * 

v And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace, 


3B|| 

PmJI 

Thomas  Moore. 


509 


SELECTIONS  FROM  MOORE. 

SOME  IRISH  MELODIES. 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 10 

[We  place  this  first  of  all  the  “Irish  Melodies,”  as  a tribute  of  respect  to  its 
sweet  and  beautiful  air.] 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet ! 11 
Oh  ! the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  nature  had  shed  o’er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 

’Twas  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill. 

Oh  ! no,  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

’Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near. 

Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear. 

And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca  ! how  calm  could  I rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I love  best, 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace  ! 


THOUGH  THE  LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  ERIN  WITH  SORROW  I SEE. 

Though  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I see, 

Yet  wherever  thou  art  shall  seem  Erin  to  me; 

In  exile  thy  bosom  shall  still  be  my  home. 

And  thine  eyes  make  my  climate  wherever  we  roam. 

To  the  gloom  of  some  desert  or  cold  rocky  shore, 

Where  the  eye  of  the  stranger  can  haunt  us  no  more, 

I will  fly  with  my  Coulin,  and  think  the  rough  wind 
Less  rude  than  the  foes  we  leave  frowning  behind. 

10  “The  Meeting  of  the  Waters”  forms  a part  of  that  beautiful  scenery  which  lies 
between  Rathdrum  and  Arklow,  in  the  county  of  Wicklow,  and  these  lines  were  sug- 
gested by  a visit  to  this  romantic  spot  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1807. 

11  The  Rivers  Avon  and  Avoca. 


510  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

And  I’ll  gaze  on  thy  gold  hair,  as  graceful  it  wreathes, 
And  hang  o’er  thy  soft  harp  as  wildly  it  breathes ; 

Nor  dread  that  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  will  tear 
One  chord  from  that  harp,  or  one  lock  from  that  hair.12 


RICH  AND  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS  SHE  WORE.13 


Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore. 

And  a bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore  ; 
But  oh  ! her  beauty  was  far  beyond 
Her  sparkling  gems  or  snow-white  wand. 


“ Lady,  dost  thou  not  .Vur  to  stray, 

So  lone  and  lovely,  through  this  bleak  way  ? 

Are  Erin’s  sons  so  good  or  so  cold 

As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  ?” 

“ Sir  Knight,  I feel  not  the  least  alarm, 

No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm  ; 

For  though  they  love  women  and  golden  store, 
Sir  Knight,  they  love  honor  and  virtue  more  ! ” 


On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  Green  Isle. 
And  blest  for  ever  is  she  who  relied 
Upon  Erin’s  honor  and  Erin’s  pride. 


12  In  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  an  act  was  made  respecting 
the  habits  and  dress  in  general  of  the  Irish,  whereby  all  persons  were  restrained  from 
being  shorn  or  shaven  above  the  ears,  or  from  wearing  glibbes  or  coulins  (long  locks) 
on  their  heads,  or  hair  on  their  upper  lip,  called  crommeal.  On  this  occasion  a song  was 
written  by  one  of  our  bards,  in  which  an  Irish  virgin  is  made  to  give  the  preference  to 
her  dear  Coulin  (or  the  youth  with  the  flowing  locks)  to  all  strangers  (by  which  the  Eng- 
lish were  meant),  or  those  who  wore  their  habits.  Of  this  song  the  air  alone  has  reached1 
us,  and  is  universally  admired  (“  Walker’s  Historical  Memoirs  of  Irish  Bards,”  p.  134). 
Mr.  Walker  informs  us  also  that  about  the  same  period  there  were  some  harsh  measures 
taken  against  the  Irish  minstrels. 

]3  This  ballad  is  founded  upon  the  following  anecdote  : “ The  people  were  inspired  with 
such  a spirit  of  honor,  virtue,  and  religion  by  the  great  example  of  Brian,  and  by  his  ex- 
cellent administration,  that,  as  a proof  of  it,  we  are  informed  that  a young  lady  of  great 
beauty,  adorned  with  jewels  and  a costly  dress,  undertook  a journey  alone,  from  one 
end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other,  with  a wand  only  in  her  hand,  at  the  top  of  which  was  a 
ring  of  exceeding  great  value  ; and  such  an  impression  had  the  laws  and  government  of 
this  monarch  made  on  the  minds  of  all  the  people  that  no  attempt  was  made  upon  her 
honor,  nor  was  she  robbed  of  her  clothes  or  jewels  (“  Warner’s  History  of  Ireland,”  vol.  i. 
book  x.) 


Thomas  Moore . 


51 1 


WHEET  HE  WHO  ADORES  TnEE.14 

Whex  lie  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 
Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 

Oh  ! say  wilt  thou  weep  when  they  darken  the  fame 
Of  a life  that  for  thee  was  resign’d  ? 

Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree  ; 

For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee  ! 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love  , 
Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine; 

In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above 
Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine  ! 

Oh  ! blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 
The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see ; 

But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 
Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 


THE  HARP  THAT  (XNUE  THROUGH  TARA’S  HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  halls 
The  soul  of  music  shed, 

How  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara’s  walls 
As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 

So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory’s  thrill  is  o’er, 

And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 
How  feel  that  pulse  no  more  ! 

Ho  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 
The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 

The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 
Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 

Thus  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes  ; 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks. 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

14  This,  doubtless,  refers  to  Robert  Emmett,  who  addresses  Erin,  his  loved  but  un 
happy  country 


512 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


REMEMBER  THE  GLORIES  OF  BRIAM  THE  BRA  YE.16 

Remember  the  glories  of  Brian  the  brave, 

Though  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o’er ; 

Though  lost  to  Mononia,16  and  cold  in  the  grave. 

He  returns  to  Kinkora 17  no  more  ! 

That  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  has  pour’d 
Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set ; 

But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword 
To  light  us  to  glory  yet. 


Mononia,  when  nature  embellish’d  the  tint 
Of  thy  fields  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 

Did  she  ever  intend  that  a tyrant  should  print 
The  footstep  of  slavery  there  ? 

Ho,  freedom  ! whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign, 
Go,  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 

?Tis  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  shrine 
Than  to  sleep  but  a moment  in  chains  ! 


Forget  not  our  wounded  companions  who  stood  18 
In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side  ; 

While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  their  blood. 
They  stirr’d  not,  but  conquer’d  and  died  ! 

The  sun  that  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his  light 
Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory’s  plain  ! 

Oh  ! let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to-night. 

To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain  ! 


15  Brian  Boru,  the  great  monarch  of  Ireland,  who  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Clontarf, 
in  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century,  after  having  defeated  the  Danes  in  twenty-five 
engagements. 

16  Munster.  11  The  palace  of  Brian. 

18  This  alludes  to  an  interesting  circumstance  related  of  the  1 algais,  the  favorite 
troops  of  Brian,  when  they  were  interrupted  in  their  return  from  the  battle  of  Clontarf 
by  Fitzpatrick,  Prince  of  Ossory.  The  wounded  men  entreated  that  they  might  be 
allowed  to  fight  with  the  rest.  “ Let  stakes,”  they  said,  “ be  stuck  in  the  ground,  and  suffer 
each  of  us,  tied  to  and  supported  by  one  of  these  stakes , to  be  placed  in  his  rank  by  the  side  of  a 
soundman .”  “Between  seven  and  eight  hundred  wounded  men,”  adds  O’Halloran,  “pale, 
emaciated,  and  supported  in  this  manner,  appeared  mixed  with  the  foremost  of  the 
troops  ; never  was  such  another  sight  exhibited  ” (“  History  of  Ireland,”  book  xii.  chap,  i.) 


Thomas  Moore. 


513 


THE  SONG  OF  FIONNUALA.19 

Silent,  0 Moyle  ! be  the  roar  of  thy  water, 

Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 

While,  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir’s  lonely  daughter 
Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of  woes. 

When  shall  the  swan,  her  death-note  singing, 

Sleep,  with  wings  in  darkness  furl’d  ? 

When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing. 

Call  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world  ! 

Sadly,  0 Moyle  ! to  thy  winter  wave  weeping, 

Fate  bids  me  languish  long  ages  away  ! 

Yet  still  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin  lie  sleeping, 

Still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning  delay  ! 

When  will  that  day-star,  mildly  springing, 

Warm  our  isle  with  peace  and  love  ! 

When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 

Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above  ? 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OF  OLD. 

Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betray’d  her  ; 

When  Malachi  wore  the  collar  of  gold  20 
Which  he  won  from  her  proud  invader ; 

When  her  kings,  with  standard  of  green  unfurl’d, 

Led  the  Red-Branch  Knights  to  danger  ; 21 

Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 
Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a stranger. 

19  To  make  this  story  intelligible  in  a song  -would  require  a much  greater  number  of 
verses  than  any  one  is  authorized  to  inflict  upon  an  audience  at  once  ; the  reader  must 
therefore  be  content  to  learn  in  a note  that  Fionnuala,  the  daughter  of  Lir,  was,  by  some 
supernatural  power,  transformed  into  a swan,  and  condemned  to  wander,  for  many  hun- 
dred years,  over  certain  lakes  and  rivers  of  Ireland  till  the  coming  of  Christianity,  when 
the  first  sound  of  the  Mass-bell  was  to  be  the  signal  of  her  release.  I found  this  fanciful 
fiction  among  some  manuscript  translations  from  the  Irish,  begun  under  the  direction  of 
the  late  Countess  of  Moira. 

so  “ This  brought  on  an  encounter  between  Malachi  (the  monarch  of  Ireland  in  the 
tenth  century)  and  the  Danes,  in  which  Malachi  defeated  two  of  their  champions,  whom 
he  encountered  successively  hand  to  hand,  taking  a collar  of  gold  from  the  neck  of  one, 
and  carrying  off  the  sword  of  the  other,  as  trophies  of  his  victory  ” (“  Warner’s  Hist, 
of  Ireland  ” vol.  i.  book  ix.) 

31  Military  orders  of  knights  were  very  early  established  in  Ireland.  Long  before  the 


514  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

On  Lough  Neagh’s  bank  as  the  fisherman  strays,” 
When  the  clear,  cold  eve’s  declining, 

He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 
In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining  ! 

Thus  shall  memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime, 
Catch  a glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over, 

Thus,  sighing,  look  through  the  waves  of  time 
For  the  long-faded  glories  they  cover  ! 


BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEARING  YOUNG  CHARMS. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 
Which  I gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 

Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms, 
Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away  ! 

Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored  as  this  moment  thou  art, 
Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 

And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 
Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 


It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own. 
And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a tear, 

That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a soul  may  be  known. 
To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear  ! 
Oh  ! the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets. 
But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 

As  the  sunflower  turns  to  her  god  when  he  sets 
The  same  look  which  she  turn’d  when  he  rose  ! 


pirth  of  Christ  we  find  an  hereditary  order  of  chivalry  in  Ulster  called  the  Curaidhe  na 
Crawbhe  ruadh,  or  the  Knights  of  the  Red  Branch,  from  their  chief  seat  in  Emania, 
adjoining  to  the  palace  of  the  Ulster  kings,  called  Teagli  na  Oraiobhe  ruadh,  or  the  Aca- 
demy of  the  Red  Branch,  and  contiguous  to  which  was  a large  hospital,  founded  for  the 
sick  knights  and  soldiers,  called  Bron-bhearg , or  the  house  of  the  sorrowful  soldier  * 
(“  O’Ha^loran’s  Introduction,”  etc.,  part  i.  chap,  v.) 

22  It  was  an  old  tradition  in  the  time  of  Giraldus  that  Lough  Neagh  had  been  origin- 
ally a fountain,  by  whose  sudden  overflowing  the  country  was  inundated,  and  a whole 
region,  like  the  Atlantis  of  Plato,  overwhelmed.  He  says  that  the  fishermen,  in  clear 
weather,  used  to  point  out  to  strangers  the  tall  ecclesiastic  towers  under  the  water. 


Thomas  Moore . 


515 


ERIN-  ! O ERIK  ! 

Like  the  bright  lamp  that  lay  on  Kildare’s  holy  shrine. 
And  burn’d  through  long  ages  of  darkness  and  storm, 

Is  the  heart  that  sorrows  have  frown’d  on  in  vain, 

Whose  spirit  outlives  them,  unfading  and  warm  ! 

Erin  ! 0 Erin  ! thus  bright  through  the  tears 

Of  a long  night  of  bondage  thy  spirit  appears  ! 

The  nations  have  fallen,  and  thou  still  art  young, 

Thy  sun  is  but  rising  when  others  are  set ; 

And  though  slavery’s  cloud  o’er  thy  morning  hath  hung, 
The  full  moon  of  freedom  shall  beam  round  thee  yet. 

Erin  ! 0 Erin  ! though  long  in  the  shade, 

Thy  star  will  shine  out  when  the  proudest  shall  fade  ! 

Unchill’d  by  the  rain,  and  unwaked  by  the  wind, 

The  lily  lies  sleeping  through  the  winter’s  cold  hour. 

Till  the  hand  of  spring  her  dark  chain  unbind, 

And  daylight  and  liberty  bless  the  young  flower. 

Erin  ! 0 Erin  ! thy  winter  is  past, 

And  the  hope  that  lived  through  it  shall  blossom  at  last ! 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

By  the  hope  within  us  springing, 

Herald  of  to-morrow’s  strife ; 

By  that  sun  whose  light  is  bringing 
Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life. 

Oh  ! remember,  life  can  be 
No  charm  for  him  who  lives  not  free  ! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave. 

Sinks  a hero  to  his  grave, 

Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a nation’s  tears  ! 

Blessed  is  he  o’er  whose  decline 
The  smiles  of  home  may  soothing  shine. 
And  light  him  down  the  steep  of  years  ; 
But,  oh  ! how  grand  they  sink  to  rest 
Who  close  their  eyes  on  victory’s  breast ! 


516  The  Prose  a7id  Poetry  of  Ireland 

O’er  his  watch-fire’s  fading  embers 
Now  the  foeman’s  cheek  turns  white* 

While  his  heart  that  field  remembers 
Where  we  dimm’d  his  glory’s  light  I 

Never  let  him  bind  again 
A chain  like  that  we  broke  from  then. 

Hark  ! the  horn  of  combat  calls  ; 

Oh  ! before  the  evening  falls 
May  we  pledge  that  horn  in  triumph  round  ! ** 

Many  a heart  that  now  beats  high 
In  slumber  cold  at  night  shall  lie. 

Nor  waken  even  at  victory’s  sound ; 

But,  oh  ! how  blest  that  hero’s  sleep 
O’er  whom  a wondering  world  shall  weep  ! 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror’s  way. 
And  lightning  show’d  the  distant  hill, 
Where  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day. 
Stood  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still — - 
The  soldier’s  hope,  the  patriot’s  zeal, 

For  ever  dimm’d  for  ever  crost ; 

Oh  ! who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel 
When  all  but  life  and  honor’s  lost  ? 

The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom’s  dream 
And  valor’s  task  moved  slowly  by. 

While  mute  they  watch’d  till  morning’s  beam 
Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die  ! 
There  is  a world  where  souls  are  free, 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature’s  bliss ; 

If  death  that  world’s  bright  opening  be. 

Oh  ! who  would  live  a slave  in  this  ? 


a*  “ The  Irish  Co^na  was  not  entirely  devoted  to  martial  purposes.  In  the  heroic  ages 
our  ancestors  quaffed  Meadh  out  of  them,  as  the  Danish  hunters  do  their  beverage  at  this 
day.”—  Walker, 


Thomas  Moore, . 


517 


ON  MUSIC. 

When  through  life  unblest  we  rove* 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear. 

Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love 
In  days  of  boyhood  meet  our  ear, 

Oh  ! how  welcome  breathes  the  strain  ! 

Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept; 
Kindling  former  smiles  again 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept  I 

Like  the  gale  that  sighs  along 
Beds  of  Oriental  flowers 
Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours ; 
Fill’d  with  balm  the  gale  sighs  on, 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death 
So,  when  pleasure’s  dream  is  gone 
It’s  memory  lives  in  music’s  breath  ! 

Music  ! oh  ! how  faint,  how  weak, 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell  1 
Why  should  feeling  ever  speak 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 
Friendship’s  balmy  words  may  feign, 

Love’s  are  even  more  false  than  they ; 

Oh  ! ’tis  only  music’s  strain 

Can  sweetly  soothe  and  not  betray  1 


I SAW  THY  FORM  IN  YOUTHFUL  PRIME. 

I saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime, 

Nor  thought  that  pale  decay 
Would  steal  before  the  steps  of  time 
And  waste  its  bloom  away,  Mary ! 

Yet  still  thy  features  wore  that  light 
Which  fleets  not  with  the  breath ; 

And  life  ne’er  look’d  more  purely  bright 
Than  in  thy  smile  of  death,  Mary  1 


5 1 8 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

As  streams  that  run  o’er  golden  mines 
With  modest  murmur  glide, 

Nor  seem  to  know  the  wealth  that  shines 
Within  their  gentle  tide,  Mary  ! 

So,  veil’d  beneath  the  simple  guise. 

Thy  radiant  genius  shone, 

And  that  which  charm’d  all  other  eyes 
Seem’d  worthless  in  thy  own,  Mary  ! 

If  souls  could  always  dwell  above, 

Thou  ne’er  hadst  left  that  sphere  ; 

Or  could  we  keep  the  souls  we  love, 

We  ne’er  had  lost  thee  here,  Mary  ! 
Though  many  a gifted  mind  we  meet. 
Though  fairest  forms  we  see, 

To  live  with  them  is  far  less  sweet 
Than  to  remember  thee,  Mary  ! 


O THE  SHAMROCK  t 

Through  Erin’s  Isle, 

To  sport  awhile, 

As  Love  and  Valor  wander’d. 

With  Wit,  the  sprite. 

Whose  quiver  bright 
A thousand  arrows  squander’d  ; 

Where’er  they  pass 
A triple  grass  24 

Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  streaming. 

As  softly  green 
As  emeralds  seen 

Through  purest  crystal  gleaming  ! 

0 the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock  ! 

Chosen  leaf 
Of  bard  and  chief, 

Old  Erin’s  native  Shamrock  ! 

a*  Saint  Patrick  ia  said  to  have  made  use  of  that  species  of  the  trefoil  to  which  in  Ire- 
land we  give  the  name  of  Shamrock  in  explaining  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  to  the  pagan 
Irish.  I do  not  know  if  there  be  any  other  reason  for  our  adoption  of  this  plant  as  a 
national  emblem.  Hope,  among  the  ancients,  was  sometimes  represented  as  a beauti- 
ful child,  “standing  upon  tip-toea  and  a trefoil  or  three-colored  grass  in  her  hand.” 


Thomas  Moore . 


Says  "Valor  : “ See, 

They  spring  for  me, 

Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  ! ” 

Says  Love  : “ No,  no, 

For  me  they  grow, 

My  fragrant  path  adorning  ! ” 

But  Wit  perceives 
The  triple  leaves. 

And  cries : “ Oh  ! do  not  sever 
A type  that  blends 
Three  godlike  friends, 

Love,  Yalor,  Wit,  for  ever  !” 

0 the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock ! 
Chosen  leaf 
Of  bard  and  chief, 

Old  Erin’s  native  Shamrock ! 


THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER. 

’Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 
Left  blooming  alone  ; 

All  her  lovely  companions 
Are  faded  and  gone  ; 

No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes. 
Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 


I’ll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one. 
To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 

Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them  ; 
Thus  kindly  I scatter 
Thy  leaves  o’er  the  bed. 

Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 
Lie  scentless  and  dead. 


520 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, \ 


So  soon  may  1 follow. 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  love’s  shining  circle 
The  gems  drop  away! 

When  true  hearts  lie  wither’d. 
And  fond  ones  are  flown, 

Oh  ! who  would  inhabit 
This  bleak  world  alone  ? 


THE  MIHSTREL  BOY. 

The  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  has  gone. 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you’ll  find  him. 

His  father’s  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 

“ Land  of  song  ! ” said  the  warrior  bard, 

“ Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 

One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard. 
One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee  ! ” 

The  minstrel  fell ! but  the  foeman’s  chain 
Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under  ; 

The  harp  he  loved  ne’er  spoke  again. 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder ; 

And  said,  “No  chains  shall  sully  thee. 
Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 

Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free. 
They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery  ! ” 


dear  harp  of  my  country. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  country  ! in  darkness  I found  thee. 
The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o’er  thee  long, 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp  ! I unbound  thee, 
And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song  ! 
The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 
Have  waken’d  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill ; 

But  so  oft  hast  thou  echo’d  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 
That  even  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 


The  Minstrel  fell ! — but  the  foeman’s  chain 
Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under; 
The  harp  he  lov’d  ne’er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder- 
And  said,  “No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

“ Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 

\il  Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 
l^fe&They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery 


■ 

^ ll 

4irr'>N 

;®?r' . 

Thomas  Moore, 


52i 


*« 


Dear  Harp  of  my  country  ! farewell  to  thy  numbers, 
This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine  ; 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  fame  on  thy  slumbers, 
Till  touch’d  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover 
Has  throbb’d  at  our  lay,  ’tis  thy  glory  alone  ; 

I was  but  as  the  wind  passing  heedlessly  over, 

Apd  all  the  wild  sweetness  I waked  was  thy  own. 


A CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG. 

Written  on  the  River  St.  Lawrence. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 

Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time ; 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  the  shore  look  dim, 
We’ll  sing  at  St.  Ann’s  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast, 

The  rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight’s  past  ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 

There  is  not  a breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl  ! 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore. 

Oh  ! sweetly  w’ell  rest  our  weary  oar. 

Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast. 

The  rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight’s  past  ! 

Ottawa’s  tide  ! this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 

Saint  of  this  green  isle  ! hear  our  prayers. 

Oh  ! grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 

The  rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight’s  past  ! 


SOME  S ACRED  SO  MGS. 

whre  not  the  sinful  mary’s  tears. 

Were  not  the  sinful  Mary’s  tears 
An  offering  worthy  Heaven, 

When  o’er  the  faults  of  former  years 
She  wept — and  was  forgiven  ? 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

When,  bringing  every  balmy  sweet 
Her  day  of  luxury  stored, 

She  o’er  her  Saviour’s  hallow’d  feet 
The  precious  perfume  pour’d ; 

And  wiped  them  with  that  golden  hair 
Where  once  the  diamonds  shone ; 

Though  now  those  gems  of  grief  were  there 
Which  shine  for  God  alone. 

Were  not  those  sweets,  though  humbly  shed — 
That  hair,  those  weeping  eyes, 

And  the  sunk  heart  that  inly  bled — 

Heaven’s  noblest  sacrifice  ? 

Thou  that  hast  slept  in  error’s  sleep, 

Oh  ! wouldst  thou  wake  in  Heaven, 

Like  Mary  kneel,  like  Mary  weep, 

“ Love  much,” 25  and  be  forgiven. 


THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  A FLEETING  SHOW. 

This  world  is  all  a fleeting  show, 

For  man’s  illusion  given  ; 

The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe. 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow — 
There’s  nothing  true  but  Heaven. 

And  false  the  light  on  glory’s  plume, 
As  fading  hues  of  even  ; 

And  love  and  hope  and  beauty’s  bloom 
Are  blossoms  gather’d  for  the  tomb — 
There’s  nothing  bright  but  Heaven. 

Poor  wand’rers  of  a stormy  day, 

From  wave  to  wave  we’re  driven, 
And  fancy’s  flash  and  reason’s  ray 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way — 
There’s  nothing  calm  but  Heaven. 


Her  sins,  which  are  many,  are  forgiven  ; for  she  loved  much.”— LuTct  vii.  42. 


Thomas  Moore. 


523 


O THOU  WHO  DRY’ST  THE  MOURNER’S  TEAR  ! 

“He  healeth  the  broken  in  heart,  and  bindeth  up  their  wounds.” — Psalm  cxlvii.  3. 

0 Thou  who  dry’st  the  mourner’s  tear  ! 

How  dark  this  world  would  be, 

If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  thee  ! 

The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live 
When  winter  comes  are  flown, 

And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give 
Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 

But  thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart 
Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part. 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers. 

And  even  the  hope  that  threw 
A moment’s  sparkle  o’er  our  tears 
Is  dimm’d  and  vanish’d  too, 

Oh  ! who  would  bear  life’s  stormy  doom. 

Did  not  thy  wing  of  love 
Come  brightly  wafting  through  the  gloom 
Our  peace-branch  from  above  ! 

Then  sorrow,  touch’d  by  thee,  grows  bright 
With  more  than  rapture’s  ray ; 

As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 
We  never  saw  by  day. 


THOU  ART,  O GOD  ! 

“ The  day  is  thine,  the  night  also  is  thine  ; thou  hast  prepared  the  light  of  the  sun.  Thou 
hast  s§t  all  the  borders  of  the  earth : thou  hast  made  summer  and  winter.” — Psalm  lxxiv, 

16*  17. 

Thou  art,  0 God  ! the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wond’rous  world  we  see  ; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 

Are  but  reflections  caught  from  thee. 

Where’er  we  turn  thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 


524  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland \ 

When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  op’ning  clouds  of  even. 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 
Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven — 

Those  hues  that  make  the  sun’s  decline 
So  soft,  so  radiant,  Lord,  are  thine. 

When  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
Overshadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird  whose  plume 
Is  sparkling  with  unnumber’d  eyes — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine, 

So  grand,  so  countless,  Lord,  are  thine. 

When  youthful  spring  around  us  breathes, 
Thy  Spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 

And  every  flower  the  summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 
Where’er  we  turn  thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine  ! 


THE  BIRD  LET  LOOSE. 

The  bird  let  loose  in  eastern  skies,2' 

When  hast’ning  fondly  home, 

Ne’er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies 
Where  idle  warblers  roam ; 

But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and  light. 
Above  all  low  delay, 

Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight. 
Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care 
And  stain  of  passion  free, 

Aloft,  through  virtue’g^purer  air. 

To  hold  my  course  to  thee  ! 


26  The  carrier-pigeon,  it  is  "well  known,  flies  at  an  elevated  pitch,  in  order  to  surmount 
every  obstacle  between  her  and  the  place  to  which  she  is  destined. 


Thomas  Moore. 


525 


No  sin  to  cloud,  no  lure  to  stay 
My  soul,  as  home  she  springs  ; 
Thy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way. 
Thy  freedom  in  her  wings  ! 


THE  EPICUREAN. 

A TALE. 


A Letter  to  the  Translator , from , Esq. 

Cairo,  June  19,  1800. 

My  dear  Sir  : 

During  a visit  lately  paid  by  me  to  the  Monastery  of  St.  Macarius — which  is 
situated,  as  you  know,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Lakes  of  Natron — I was  lucky  enough 
to  obtain  possession  of  a curious  Greek  manuscript,  which,  in  the  hope  that  you 
may  be  induced  to  translate  it,  I herewith  transmit  to  you. 

You  will  find  the  story,  I think,  not  altogether  uninteresting  ; and  the  coin- 
cidence, in  many  respects,  of  the  curious  details  in  Chap.  VI.  with  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  same  ceremonies  in  the  romance  of  “ Sethos  ” will,  I have  no  doubt, 
strike  you.  Hoping  that  you  may  be  induced  to  give  a translation  of  this  tale  to 
the  world, 

I am,  my  dear  sir, 

Very  truly  yours, 


THE  EPICUREAN. 

CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  in  the  fourth  year  of  the  reign  of  the  late  Emperor  Vale- 
rian 27  that  the  followers  of  Epicurus,  who  were  at  that  time  nume- 
rous in  Athens,  proceeded  to  the  election  of  a person  to  fill  the 
vacant  chair  of  their  sect,  and,  by  the  unanimous  voice  of  the 
school,  I was  the  individual  chosen  for  their  chief.  I was  just 
then  entering  on  my  twenty-fourth  year,  and  no  instance  had  ever 
before  occurred  of  a person  so  young  being  selected  for  that  high 
office.  Youth,  however,  and  the  personal  advantages  that  adorn  it, 
could  not  but  rank  among  the  most  agreeable  recommendations  to 
a sect  that  included  within  its  circle  all  the  beauty  as  well  as  the 
wit  of  Athens,  and  which,  though  dignifying  its  pursuits  with  the 


91  Valerian  began  his  reign  a.d.  253. 


526 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


name  of  philosophy,  was  little  else  than  a plausible  pretext  for  the 
more  refined  cultivation  of  pleasure. 

The  character  of  the  sect  had,  indeed,  much  changed  since  the 
time  of  its  wise  and  virtuous  founder,  who,  while  he  asserted  that 
pleasure  is  the  only  good,  inculcated  also  that  good  is  the  only 
source  of  pleasure.  The  purer  part  of  this  doctrine  had  long  eva- 
porated, and  the  temperate  Epicurus  would  have  as  little  recognized 
his  own  sect  in  the  assemblage  of  refined  voluptuaries  who  nowl 
usurped  its  name  as  he  would  have  known  his  own  quiet  garden  in 
the  luxurious  groves  and  bowers  among  which  the  meetings  of  the 
school  were  now  held. 

Many  causes  concurred  at  this  period,  besides  the  attractiveness  of 
its  doctrines,  to  render  our  school  by  far  the  most  popular  of  any 
that  still  survived  the  glory  of  Greece.  It  may  generally  be 
observed  that  the  prevalence  in  one-half  of  a community  of  very 
rigid  notions  on  the  subject  of  religion  produces  the  opposite 
extreme  of  laxity  and  infidelity  in  the  other,  and  this  kind  of 
reaction  it  was  that  now  mainly  contributed  to  render  the  doctrines 
of  the  garden  the  most  fashionable  philosophy  of  the  day. 
The  rapid  progress  of  the  Christian  faith  had  alarmed  all  those 
who,  either  from  piety  or  worldliness,  were  interested  in  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  old  established  creed — all  who  believed  in  the  deities 
of  Olympus,  and  all  who  lived  by  them.  The  natural  consequence 
was  a considerable  increase  of  zeal  and  activity  throughout  the 
constituted  authorities  and  priesthood  of  the  whole  heathen  world. 
What  was  wanting  in  sincerity  of  belief  was  made  up  in  rigor  ; the 
weakest  parts  of  the  mythology  were  those,  of  course,  most  angrily 
defended,  and  any  reflections  tending  to  bring  Saturn  or  his  wife, 
Ops,  into  contempt,  were  punished  with  the  utmost  severity  of  the 
law. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  between  the  alarmed  bigotry  of  the  declin-j 
ing  faith  and  the  simple,  sublime  austerity  of  her  rival,  it  was  not 
wonderful  that  those  lovers  of  ease  and  pleasure  who  had  no  inte- 
rest, reversionary  or  otherwise,  in  the  old  religion,  and  were  too 
indolent  to  enquire  into  the  sanctions  of  the  new,  should  take  refuge 
from  the  severities  of  both  in  the  arms  of  a luxurious  philosophy, » 
which,  leaving  to  others  the  task  of  disputing  about  the  future, 
centred  all  its  wisdom  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  present. 

The  sectaries  of  the  garden  had,  ever  since  the  death  of  their 
founder,  been  accustomed  to  dedicate  to  his  memory  the  twentieth 


Thomas  Moore. 


527 


day  of  every  month.  To  these  monthly  rites  had  for  some  time 
been  added  a grand  annual  festival,  in  commemoration  of  his  birth. 
The  feasts  given  on  this  occasion  by  my  predecessors  in  the  chair 
had  been  invariably  distinguished  for  their  taste  and  splendor,  and 
it  was  my  ambition  not  merely  to  imitate  this  example,  but  even  to 
render  the  anniversary  now  celebrated  under  my  auspices  so  lively 
and  brilliant  as  to  efface  the  recollection  of  all  that  had  pre- 
ceded it. 

Seldom,  indeed,  had  Athens  witnessed  so  bright  a scene.  The 
grounds  that  formed  the  original  site  of  the  garden  had  received, 
from  time  to  time,  considerable  additions,  and  the  whole  extent 
was  now  laid  out  with  that  perfect  taste  which  understands  how  to 
wed  nature  with  art  without  sacrificing  any  of  her  simplicity  to  the 
alliance.  Walks  leading  through  wildernesses  of  shade  and  fra- 
grance, glades  opening  as  if  to  afford  a playground  for  the  sunshine, 
temples  rising  on  the  very  spots  where  Imagination  herself  would 
have  called  them  up,  and  fountains  and  lakes  in  alternate  motion 
and  repose,  either  wantonly  courting  the  verdure  or  calmly  sleeping 
in  its  embrace — such  was  the  variety  of  feature  that  diversified  these 
fair  gardens ; and  animated  as  they  were  on  this  occasion  by  all  the 
living  wit  and  loveliness  of  Athens,  it  afforded  a scene  such  as  my 
own  youthful  fancy,  rich  as  it  was  then  in  images  of  luxury  and 
beauty,  could  hardly  have  anticipated. 

The  ceremonies  of  the  day  began  with  the  very  dawn,  when,  ac- 
cording to  the  form  of  simpler  and  better  times,  those  among  the 
disciples  who  had  apartments  within  the  garden  bore  the  image  of 
our  founder  in  procession  from  chamber  to  chamber,  chanting  verses 
in  praise  of  what  had  long  ceased  to  be  objects  of  our  imitation — his 
frugality  and  temperance. 

Eound  a beautiful  lake  in  the  centre  of  the  garden  stood  four 
white  Doric  temples,  in  one  of  which  was  collected  a library  con- 
taining all  the  flowers  of  Grecian  literature,  while  in  the  remaining 
three  conversation,  the  song,  and  the  dance  held,  uninterrupted  by 
each  other,  their  respective  rites.  In  the  library  stood  busts  of  all 
the  most  illustrious  Epicureans,  both  of  Rome  and  Greece — Horace, 
Atticus,  Pliny  the  elder,  the  poet  Lucretius,  Lucian,  and  the 
lamented  biographer  of  the  philosophers,  lately  lost  to  us,  Diogenes 
Laertius.  There  were  also  the  portraits  in  marble  of  all  the  eminent 
female  votaries  of  the  school — Leontium  and  her  fair  daughter 
Danae,  Themista,  Philaenis,  and  others. 


528  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

It  was  here  that  in  my  capacity  of  Heresiarch,  on  the  morning 
of  the  festival,  I received  the  felicitations  of  the  day  from  some  of 
the  fairest  lips  of  Athens  ; and,  in  pronouncing  the  customary  ora- 
tion to  the  memory  of  our  Master  (in  which  it  was  usual  to 
dwell  upon  the  doctrines  he  had  inculcated),  endeavored  to  attain 
that  art,  so  useful  before  such  an  audience,  of  lending  to  the  gravest 
subjects  a charm,  which  secures  them  listeners  even  among  the 
simplest  and  most  volatile. 

Though  study,  as  may  be  supposed,  engrossed  but  little  the  nights 
or  mornings  of  the  garden,  yet  all  the  lighter  parts  of  learning — 
that  portion  of  its  attic  honey  for  which  the  bee  is  not  compelled 
to  go  very  deep  into  the  flower — was  somewhat  zealously  cultivated 
by  us.  Even  here,  however,  the  young  student  had  to  encounter 
that  kind  of  distraction  which  is,  of  all  others,  the  least  favorable 
to  composure  of  thought  ; and  with  more  than  one  of  my  fair  dis- 
ciples there  used  to  occur  such  scenes  as  the  following,  which  a poet 
of  the  garden,  taking  his  picture  from  the  life,  thus  described  : 

“ As  o'er  the  lake,  in  evening’s  glow, 

That  temple  threw  its  lengthening  shade, 

Upon  the  marble  steps  below 
There  sate  a fair  Corinthian  maid, 

Gracefully  o’er  some  volume  bending  ; 

While  by  her  side  the  youthful  Sage 
Held  back  her  ringlets,  lest,  descending, 

They  should  o’ershadow  all  the  page.” 

But  it  was  for  the  evening  of  that  day  that  the  richest  of  our 
luxuries  were  reserved.  Every  part  of  the  garden  was  illuminated, 
with  the  most  skilful  variety  of  lustre,  while  over  the  Lake  of  the 
Temples  were  scattered  wreaths  of  flowers,  through  which  boats, 
filled  with  beautiful  children,  floated  as  through  a liquid  parterre. 

Between  two  of  these  boats  a mock  combat  was  perpetually  Car- 
ried on,  their  respective  commanders,  two  blooming  youths,  being 
habited  to  represent  Eros  and  Anteros — the  former  the  Celestial  Love 
of  the  Platonists,  and  the  latter  that  more  earthly  spirit  which  usurps 
the  name  of  Love  among  the  Epicureans.  Throughout  the  whole 
evening  their  conflict  was  maintained  with  various  success,  the 
timid  distance  at  which  Eros  kept  aloof  from  his  lively  antagonist 
being  his  only  safeguard  against  those  darts  of  fire,  with  showers  of 
which  the  other  assailed  him,  but  which,  falling  short  of  their  mark 


Thomas  Moore. 


529 

upon  the  lake,  only  scorched  the  few  flowers  on  which  they  fell  and 
were  extinguished. 

In  another  part  of  the  gardens,  on  a wide  glade,  illuminated  only 
by  the  moon,  was  performed  an  imitation  of  the  torch-race  of  the 
Panathenoea  by  young  boys  chosen  for  their  fleetness  and  arrayed 
with  wings  like  cupids ; while,  not  far  off,  a group  of  seven  nymphs, 
with  each  a star  on  her  forehead,  represented  the  movements  of  the 
planetary  choir,  and  embodied  the  dream  of  Pythagoras  into  real 
motion  and  song. 

At  every  turning  some  new  enchantment  broke  unexpectedly  on 
the  eye  or  ear ; and  now,  from  the  depth  of  a dark  grove,  from 
which  a fountain  at  the  same  time  issued,  there  came  a strain  of 
sweet  music,  which,  mingling  with  the  murmur  of  the  water, 
seemed  like  the  voice  of  the  spirit  that  presided  over  its  flow  ; while 
at  other  times  the  same  strain  appeared  to  come  breathing  from 
among  flowers,  or  was  heard  suddenly  from  underground,  as  if  the 
foot  had  just  touched  some  spring  that  set  its  melody  in  motion. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  I should  now  dwell  upon  all  these 
trifling  details ; but  they  were  to  me  full  of  the  future,  and  every- 
thing connected  with  that  memorable  night — even  its  long-repented 
follies — must  forever  live  fondly  and  sacredly  in  my  memory.  The 
festival  concluded  with  a banquet,  at  which,  as  master  of  the  sect, 
I presided,  and  being  myself,  in  every  sense,  the  ascendant  spirit  of 
the  whole  sce«ie,  gave  life  to  all  around  me,  and  saw  my  own  happi- 
ness reflected  in  that  of  others. 

chapter  n. 

The  festival  was  over;  the  sounds  of  the  song  and  dance  had 
ceased,  and  I was  now  left  in  those  luxurious  gardens  alone. 
Though  so  ardent  and  active  a votary  of  pleasure,  I had,  by  nature, 
a disposition  full  of  melancholy — an  imagination  that,  even  in  the 
midst  of  mirth  and  happiness,  presented  saddening  thoughts  and 
threw  the  shadow  of  the  future  over  the  gayest  illusions  of  the 
present.  Melancholy  was,  indeed,  twin-born  in  my  soul  with  pas- 
sion, and  not  even  in  the  fullest  fervor  of  the  latter  were  they  ever 
separated.  From  the  first  moment  that  I was  conscious  of  thought 
and  feeling  the  same  dark  thread  had  run  across  the  web,  and  im- 
ages of  death  and  annihilation  came  to  mingle  themselves  with  even 
the  most  smiling  scenes  through  which  love  and  enjoyment  led  me* 


530 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


My  very  passion  for  pleasure  but  deepened  these  gloomy  thoughts. 
For,  shut  out,  as  I was  by  my  creed,  from  a future  life,  and  having 
no  hope  beyond  the  narrow  horizon  of  this,  every  minute  of  earthly 
delight  assumed,  in  my  eyes,  a mournful  preciousness,  and  pleasure, 
like  the  flower  of  the  cemetery,  grew  but  more  luxuriant  from  the 
neighborhood  of  death. 

This  very  night  my  triumph,  my  happiness,  had  seemed  com- 
plete. I had  been  the  presiding  genius  of  that  voluptuous  scene. 
Both  my  ambition  and  my  love  of  pleasure  had  drunk  deep  of  the 
rich  cup  for  which  they  thirsted.  Looked  up  to  as  I was  by  the 
learned,  and  admired  and  loved  by  the  beautiful  and  the  young,  I 
had  seen  in  every  eye  that  met  mine  either  the  acknowledgment 
of  bright  triumphs  already  won,  or  the  promise  of  others  still 
brighter  that  awaited  me.  Yet,  even  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  the 
same  dark  thoughts  had  presented  themselves  ; the  perishableness 
of  myself  and  all  around  me  had  recurred  every  instant  to  my 
mind.  Those  hands  I had  pressed,  those  eyes  in  which  I had  seen 
sp>arkling  a spirit  of  light  and  life  that  ought  never  to  die,  those 
voices  tnat  had  spoken  of  eternal  love,  all,  all  I felt  were  but  a 
mockery  of  the  moment,  and  would  leave  nothing  eternal  but  the 
silence  of  their  dust ! 

Oh  ! were  it  not  for  this  sad  voice, 

Stealing  amid  cur  mirth  to  say 
That  all  in  which  wc  most  rejoice 
Ere  night  may  be  the  earth-worm’s  prey 
But  for  this  bitter — only  this — 

Full  as  the  world  is  brimm’d  with  bliss, 

And  capable  as  feels  my  soul 
Of  draining  to  its  depth  the  whole, 

1 should  turn  earth  to  heaven,  and  be, 

If  bliss  made  gods,  a deity ! 

Such  was  the  description  I gave  of  my  own  feelings  in  one  of  those 
wild,  passionate  songs  to  which  this  mixture  of  mirth  and  melan- 
choly in  a spirit  so  buoyant  naturally  gave  birth. 

And  seldom  had  my  heart  so  fully  surrendered  itself  to  this  sort 
of  vague  sadness  as  at  that  very  moment  when,  as  I paced  thought- 
fully among  the  fading  lights  and  flowers  of  the  banquet,  the  echo 
of  my  own  step  was  all  that  now  sounded  where  so  many  gay  forms 
had  lately  been  revelling.  The  moon  was  still  up,  the  morning  had 
not  yet  glimmered,  and  the  calm  glories  of  the  night  still  rested  on 


Thomas  Moore 


53i 


all  around.  Unconscious  whither  my  pathway  led,  I continued  to 
wander  along,  till  I at  length  found  myself  before  that  fair  statue  of 
Venus  with  which  the  chisel  of  Alcamenes  had  embellished  our 
garden — that  image  of  .deified  woman,  the  only  idol  to  which  I had 
ever  yet  bent  the  knee.  Leaning  against  the  pedestal  of  the  statue, 
I raised  my  eyes  to  heaven,  and,  fixing  them  sadly  and  intently  on 
the  ever-burning  stars,  as  if  seeking  to  read  the  mournful  secret  in 
their  light,  asked  wherefore  was  it  that  man  alone  must  fade  and 
perish,  while  they,  so  much  less  wonderful,  less  god-like  than  he, 
thus  still  lived  on  in  radiance  unchangeable  and  forever  ! “ Oh  ! 

that  there  were  some  spell,  some  talisman,”  I exclaimed,  “to  make 
the  spirit  that  burns  within  us  deathless  as  those  stars,  and  open  to 
it  a career  like  theirs,  as  bright  and  inextinguishable  throughout  all 
time  ! ” 

While  thus  indulging  in  wild  and  melancholy  fancies,  T felt  that 
lassitude  which  earthly  pleasure,  however  sweet,  still  leaves  behind 
come  insensibly  over  me,  and  at  length  sunk  at  the  base  of  the 
statue  to  sleep. 

But  even  in  sleep  the  same  fancies  continued  to  haunt  me,  and  a 
dream,  so  distinct  and  vivid  as  to  leave  behind  it  the  impression  of 
reality,  thus  presented  itself  to  my  mind.  I found  myself  suddenly 
transported  to  a wide  and  desolate  plain,  where  nothing  appeared  to 
breathe,  or  move,  or  live.  The  very  sky  that  hung  above  it  looked 
pale  and  extinct,  giving  the  idea,  not  of  darkness,  but  of  light  that 
had  become  dead ; and  had  that  whole  region  been  the  remains  of 
some  older  world,  left  broken  up  and  sunless,  it  could  not  have  pre- 
sented an  aspect  more  quenched  and  desolate.  The  only  thing  that 
bespoke  life  throughout  this  melancholy  waste  was  a small  spark  of 
light,  that  at  first  glimmered  in  the  distance,  but  at  length  slowly 
approached  the ' bleak  spot  where  I stood.  As  it  drew  nearer  I 
could  see  that  its  small  but  steady  gleam  came  from  a taper  in  the 
hand  of  an  ancient  and  venerable  man,  who  now  stood,  like  a pale 
messenger  from  the  grave,  before  me.  After  a few  moments  of 
awful  silence,  during  which  he  looked  at  me  with  a sadness  that 
thrilled  my  very  soul,  he  said  : “ Thou  who  seekest  eternal  life,  go 
unto  the  shores  of  the  dark  Nile — go  unto  the  shores  of  the  dark 
Nile,  and  thou  wilt  find  the  eternal  life  thou  seekest ! ” 

No  sooner  had  he  uttered  these  words  than  the  deathlike  hue  of 
his  cheek  at  once  brightened  into  a smile  of  more  than  earthly 
promise,  while  the  small  torch  he  held  in  his  hand  sent  forth  a 


532 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


glow  of  radiance  by  which  suddenly  the  whole  surface  of  the  desert 
was  illuminated,  the  light  spreading  even  to  the  distant  horizon’s 
edge,  along  whose  line  I could  now  see  gardens,  palaces,  and  spires, 
all"  as  bright  as  the  rich  architecture  of  the  clouds  at  sunset.  Sweet 
music,  too,  came  floating  in  every  direction  through  the  air,  and 
from  all  sides  such  varieties  of  enchantment  broke  upon  me  that, 
with  the  excess  alike  of  harmony  and  of  radiance,  I awoke. 

That  infidels  should  be  superstitious  is  an  anomaly  neither  un- 
usual nor  strange.  A belief  in  superhuman  agency  seems  natural 
and  necessary  to  the  mind,  and  if  not  suffered  to  flow  in  the  obvious 
channels,  it  will  find  a vent  in  some  other.  Hence,  many  who  have 
doubted  the  existence  of  a God  have  yet  implicitly  placed  them- 
selves under  the  patronage  of  fate  or  the  stars.  Much  the  same 
inconsistency  I was  conscious  of  in  my  own  feelings.  Though  re- 
jecting all  belief  in  a divine  Providence,  I had  yet  a faith  in  dreams 
that  all  my  philosophy  could  not  conquer.  Nor  was  experience 
wanting  to  confirm  me  in  my  delusion ; for,  by  some  of  those  acci- 
dental coincidences  which  make  the  fortune  of  soothsayers  and 
prophets,  dreams,  more  than  once,  had  been  to  me — 

Oracles,  truer  far  than  oak, 

Or  dove,  or  tripod,  ever  spoke. 

It  was  not  wonderful,  therefore,  that  the  vision  of  that  night — 
touching,  as  it  did,  a chord  so  ready  to  vibrate — should  have  affected 
me  with  more  than  ordinary  power,  and  even  sunk  deeper  into  my 
memory  with  every  effort  I made  to  forget  it.  In  vain  did  I mock 
at  my  own  weakness  ; such  self-derision  is  seldom  sincere.  In  vain 
did  I pursue  my  accustomed  pleasures.  Their  zest  was,  as  usual, 
for  ever  new;  but  still,  in  the  midst  of  all  my  enjoyment,  came  the 
cold  and  saddening  consciousness  of  mortality,  and  with  it  the  re- 
collection of  that  visionary  promise  to  which  my  fancy,  in  defiance 
of  reason,  still  continued  to  cling. 

At  times  indulging  in  reveries  that  were  little  else  than  a continu- 
ation of  my  dream,  I even  contemplated  the  possible  existence  of 
some  mighty  secret  by  which  youth,  if  not  perpetuated,  might  be  at 
least  prolonged,  and  that  dreadful  vicinity  of  death,  within  whose 
circle  love  pines  and  pleasure  sickens,  might  be  for  a while  averted. 
“ Who  knows,”  I would  ask,  “but  that  in  Egypt,  that  region  of 
wonders  where  Mystery  hath  yet  unfolded  but  half  her  treasures, 
where  still  remain,  undeciphered,  upon  the  pillars  of  Seth  so  many 


Thomas  Moore . 


533 


written  secrets  of  the  antediluvian  world — who  can  tell  hut  that 
some  powerful  charm,  some  amulet,  may  there  lie  hid  whose  dis- 
covery, as  this  phantom  hath  promised,  but  awaits  my  coming — 
some  compound  of  the  same  pure  atoms  that  form  the  essence  of 
the  living  stars,  and  whose  infusion  into  the  frame  of  man  might 
render  him  also  unfading  and  immortal ! ” 

Thus  fondly  did  I sometimes  speculate  in  those  vague  moods  of 
mind  when  the  life  of  excitement  in  which  I was  engaged,  acting 
upon  a warm  heart  and  vivid  fancy,  produced  an  intoxication  of 
spirit,  during  which  I was  not  wholly  myself.  This  bewilderment, 
too,  was  not  a little  increased  by  the  constant  struggle  I experi- 
enced between  my  own  natural  feelings  and  the  cold,  mortal  creed 
of  my  sect,  in  endeavoring  to  escape  from  whose  deadening  bondage 
I but  broke  loose  into  the  realms  of  fantasy  and  romance. 

Even  in  my  soberest  moments,  however,  that  strange  vision  for 
ever  haunted  me,  and  every  effort  I made  to  chase  it  from  my  recollec- 
tion was  unavailing.  The  deliberate  conclusion,  therefore,  to  which 
I at  last  came  was  that  to  visit  Egypt  was  now  my  only  resource  ; 
that  without  seeing  that  land  of  wonders  I could  not  rest,  nor, 
until  convinced  of  my  folly  by  disappointment,  be  reasonable. 
Without  delay,  accordingly,  I announced  to  my  friends  of  the  garden 
the  intention  I had  formed  to  pay  a visit  to  the  Land  of  Pyramids. 
To  none  of  them,  however,  did  I dare  to  confess  the  vague,  visionary 
impulse  that  actuated  me,  knowledge  being  the  object  that  I 
alleged,  while  pleasure  was  that  for  which  they  gave  me  credit. 
The  interests  of  the  school,  it  was  feared,  might  suffer  by  my  ab- 
sence, and  there  were  some  tenderer  ties  which  had  still  more  to 
fear  from  separation.  But  for  the  former  inconvenience  a tempora- 
ry remedy  was  provided,  while  the  latter  a skilful  distribution  of 
vows  and  sighs  alleviated.  Being  furnished  with  recommendatory 
letters  to  all  parts  of  Egypt,  I set  sail,  in  the  summer  of  the  year 
257  a.d.,  for  Alexandria. 

CHAPTER  HI. 

To  one  who  so  well  knew  how  to  extract  pleasure  from  every  mo- 
ment on  land,  a sea- voyage,  however  smooth  and  favorable,  appeared 
the  least  agreeable  mode  of  losing  time  that  could  be  devised. 
Often,  indeed,  did  my  imagination,  in  passing  some  isle  of  those 
seas,  people  it  with  fair  forms  and  loving  hearts,  to  which  most 


534 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


willingly  would  I have  paused  to  offer  homage.  But  the  wind  olew 
direct  towards  the  Land  of  Mystery,  and,  still  more,  I heard  a voice 
within  me  whispering  for  ever,  “ On.” 

As  we  approached  the  coast  of  Egypt  our  course  became  less 
prosperous,  and  we  had  a specimen  of  the  benevolence  of  the  divi- 
nities of  the  Nile  in  the  shape  of  a storm,  or  rather  whirlwind, 
which  had  nearly  sunk  our  vessel,  and  which  the  Egyptians  on 
board  declared  to  be  the  work  of  their  deity,  Typlion.  After  a day 
and  night  of  danger,  during  which  we  were  driven  out  of  our  course 
to  the  eastward,  some  benigner  influence  prevailed  above,  and,  at 
length,  as  the  morning  freshly  broke,  we  saw  the  beautiful  city  of 
Alexandria  rising  from  the  sea,  with  its  proud  Palace  of  Kings,  its 
portico  of  four  hundred  columns,  and  the  fair  Pillar  of  Pillars 
towering  in  the  midst  to  heaven. 

After  passing  in  review  this  splendid  vision,  we  shot  rapidly  round 
the  Rock  of  Pharos,  and,  in  a few  minutes,  found  ourselves  in  the 
harbor  of  Eunostus.  The  sun  had  risen,  but  the  light  on  the 
Great  Tower  of  the  Rock  was  still  burning,  and  there  was  a languor 
in  the  first  waking  movements  of  that  voluptuous  city,  whose  houses 
and  temples  lay  shining  in  silence  around  the  harbor,  that  suffi- 
ciently attested  the  festivities  of  the  preceding  night. 

We  were  soon  landed  on  the  quay ; and,  as  I walked  through  a 
line  of  palaces  and  shrines  up  the  street  which  leads  from  the  sea 
to  the  Gate  of  Canopus,  fresh  as  I was  from  the  contemplation  of 
my  own  lovely  Athens,  I yet  felt  a glow  of  admiration  at  the  scene 
around  me,  which  its  novelty,  even  more  than  its  magnificence,  in- 
spired. Nor  were  the  luxuries  and  delights  which  such  a city  pro- 
mised among  the  least  of  the  considerations  upon  which  my  fancy 
dwelt.  On  the  contrary,  everything  around  me  seemed  prophetic 
of  love  and  pleasure.  The  very  forms  of  the  architecture,  to  my 
Epicurean  imagination,  appeared  to  call  up  images  of  living  grace ; 
and  even  the  dim  seclusion  of  the  temples  and  groves  spoke  only  of 
tender  mysteries  to  my  mind.  As  the  whole  bright  scene  grew  ani- 
mated around  me,  I felt  that  though  Egypt  might  not  enable  me  to 
lengthen  life,  she  could  teach  me  the  next  best  art— that  of  multi- 
plying its  enjoyments. 

Rapidly  some  weeks  now  passed  in  ever-changing  pleasures.  Even 
the  melancholy  voice  deep  within  my  heart  died  away;  but,  at 
length,  as  the  novelty  of  these  gay  scenes  wore  off,  the  same  vague 
and  gloomy  bodings  began  to  mingle  with  all  my  joys  ; and  an  inci- 


Thomas  Moore . 


535 


dent  that  occurred  at  this  time,  during  one  of  my  gayest  revels,  con- 
duced still  more  to  deepen  their  gloom. 

The  celebration  of  the  annual  festival  of  Serapis  happened  to  take 
place  during  my  stay,  and  I was  more  than  once  induced  to  mingle 
with  the  gay  multitudes  that  flocked  to  the  shrine  at  Canopus  on 
the  occasion.  Day  and  night,  as  long  as  this  festival  lasted,  the 
great  canal  which  led  from  Alexandria  to  Canopus  was  covered  with 
boats  full  of  pilgrims  of  both  sexes,  all  hastening  to  avail  themselves 
of  this  pious  license,  which  lent  the  zest  of  a religious  sanction  to 
pleasure,  and  gave  a holyday  to  the  follies  and  passions  of  earth  in 
honor  of  heaven. 

I was  returning  one  lovely  night  to  Alexandria.  The  north  wind 
— that  welcome  visitor — had  cooled  and  freshened  the  air,  while  the 
banks  on  either  side  of  the  stream  sent  forth,  from  groves  of  orange 
and  henna,  the  most  delicious  odors.  As  I had  left  all  the  crowd 
behind  me  at  Canopus,  there  was  not  a boat  to  be  seen  on  the  canal 
but  my  own,  and  I was  just  yielding  to  the  thoughts  which  solitude 
at  such  an  hour  inspires,  when  my  reveries  were  suddenly  broken  by 
the  sound  of  some  female  voices,  coming  mingled  with  laughter  and 
screams,  from  the  garden  of  a pavillion  that  stood  brilliantly  illumi- 
nated upon  the  bank  of  the  canal. 

On  rowing  nearer  I perceived  that  both  the  mirth  and  the  alarm 
had  been  caused  by  the  efforts  of  some  playful  girls  to  reach  a hedge 
of  jasmine  which  grew  near  the  water,  and  in  bending  towards 
which  they  had  nearly  fallen  into  the  stream.  Hastening  to  proffer 
my  assistance,  I soon  recognized  the  face  of  one  of  my  fair  Alexan- 
drian friends,  and,  springing  on  the  bank,  was  surrounded  by  the 
whole  group,  who  insisted  on  my  joining  their  party  in  the  pavil- 
lion ; and,  having  flung  around  me  as  fetters  the  tendrils  of  jasmine 
which  they  had  just  plucked,  conducted  me  no  unwilling  captive  to 
the  banquet-room. 

I found  here  an  assemblage  of  the  very  flower  of  Alexandrian  so- 
ciety. The  unexpectedness  of  the  meeting  added  new  zest  to  it  on 
both  sides,  and  seldom  had  I ever  felt  more  enlivened  myself  or 
succeeded  better  in  infusing  life  and  gayety  into  others. 

Among  the  company  were  some  Greek  women,  who,  according  to 
the  fashion  of  their  country,  wore  veils,  but,  as  usual,  rather  to 
set  off  than  to  conceal  their  beauty,  some  bright  gleams  of  which 
were  constantly  escaping  from  under  the  cloud.  There  was,  how- 
ever, one  female  who  particularly  attracted  my  attention,  on  whose 


536  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

head  was  a chaplet  of  dark-colored  flowers,  and  who  sat  yeiled  and 
silent  during  the  whole  of  the  banquet.  She  took  no  share,  I ob- 
served, in  what  was  passing  around;  the  viands  and  the  wine  went 
by  her  untouched,  nor  did  a word  that  was  spoken  seem  addressed 
to  her  ear.  This  abstraction  from  a scene  so  sparkling  with  gayety, 
though  apparently  unnoticed  by  any  one  but  myself,  struck  me  as 
mysterious  and  strange.  I enquired  of  my  fair  neighbor  the  cause 
of  it,  but  she  looked  grave,  and  was  silent. 

In  the  meantime  the  lyre  and  the  cup  went  round,  and  a young 
maid  from  Athens,  as  if  inspired  by  the  presence  of  her  country- 
man, took  her  lute  and  sung  to  it  some  of  the  songs  of  Greece  with 
the  warmth  of  feeling  that  bore  me  back  to  the  banks  of  the  Ilissus, 
and,  even  in  the  bosom  of  present  pleasures,  drew  a sigh  from  my 
heart  for  that  which  had  passed  away.  It  was  daybreak  ere  our 
delighted  party  rose,  and  most  unwillingly  re-embarked  to  return  to 
the  city. 

We  were  scarce  afloat  when  it  was  discovered  that  the  lute  of  the 
young  Athenian  had  been  left  behind,  and,  with  a heart  still  full  of 
its  sweet  sounds,  I most  readily  sprang  on  shore  to  seek  it.  I has- 
tened at  once  to  the  banquet-room,  which  was  now  dim  and  soli- 
tary, except  that — there,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  was  still  seated 
that  silent  figure  which  had  awakened  so  much  my  curiosity  during 
the  evening.  A vague  feeling  of  awe  came  over  me  as  I now  slowly 
approached  it.  There  was  no  motion,  no  sound  of  breathing  in 
that  form,;  not  a leaf  of  the  dark  chaplet  upon  its  brow  stirred. 
By  the  light  of  a dying  lamp  which  stood  on  the  table  before  the 
figure  I raised,  with  hesitating  hand,  the  veil,  and  saw — what  my 
fancy  had  already  anticipated — that  the  shape  underneath  was  life- 
less, was  a skeleton  ! Startled  and  shocked,  I hurried  back  with 
the  lute  to  the  boat,  and  was  almost  as  silent  as  that  shape  itself 
during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage. 

This  custom  among  the  Egyptians  of  placing  a mummy  or  skele- 
ton at  the  banquet-table  had  been  for  some  time  disused,  except  at 
particular  ceremonies,  and  even  on  such  occasions  it  had  been  the 
practice  of  the  luxurious  Alexandrians  to  disguise  this  memorial  of 
mortality  in  the  manner  just  described.  But  to  me,  who  was  wholly 
unprepared  for  such  a spectacle,  it  gave  a shock  from  which  my 
imagination  did  not  speedily  recover.  This  silent  and  ghastly  wit- 
ness of  mirth  seemed  to  embody,  as  it  were,  the  shadow  in  my  own 
heart.  The  features  of  the  grave  were  thus  stamped  upon  the  idea 


Thomas  Moore. 


537 


that  had  long  haunted  me,  and  this  picture  of  what  I was  to  he  now 
associated  itself  constantly  with  the  sunniest  aspect  of  wThat  I zvets. 

The  memory  of  the  dream  now  recurred  to  me  more  livelily 
than  ever.  The  bright,  assuring  smile  of  that  beautiful  Spirit,  and 
his  words,  “ Go  to  the  shores  of  the  dark  Nile  and  thou  wilt  find 
the  eternal  life  thou  seekest,”  were  for  ever  present  to  my  mind. 
But  as  yet,  alas  ! I had  done  nothing  towards  realizing  the  proud 
promise.  Alexandria  was  not  Egypt ; the  very  soil  on  which  it  now 
stood  was  not  in  existence  when  already  Thebes  and  Memphis  had 
numbered  age:  of  glory. 

“ No,”  I exclaimed  ; “ it  is  only  beneath  the  Pyramids  of  Mem- 
phis or  in  the  mystic  halls  of  the  Labyrinth  those  holy  arcana  are 
to  be  found  of  which  the  antediluvian  world  has  made  Egypt  its 
heir,  and  among  which — blest  thought ! — the  key  to  eternal  life  may 
lie.” 

Having  formed  my  determination,  I took  leave  of  my  many  Alex- 
andrian friends  and  departed  for  Memphis. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Egypt  was,  perhaps,  of  all  others,  the  country  most  calculated, 
from  that  mixture  of  the  melancholy  and  the  voluptuous  which 
marked  the  character  of  her  people,  her  religion,  and  her  scenery, 
to  affect  deeply  a fancy  and  temperament  like  mine  and  keep  both 
for  ever  tremblingly  alive.  Wherever  I turned  I beheld  the  desert 
and  the  garden  mingling  together  their  desolation  and  bloom.  I 
saw  the  love-bower  and  the  tomb  standing  side  by  side,  as  if,  in  that 
land,  pleasure  and  death  kept  hourly  watch  upon  each  other.  In 
the  very  luxury  of  the  climate  there  was  the  same  saddening  influ- 
ence. The  monotonous  splendor  of  the  days,  the  solemn  radiance  of 
the  nights,  all  tended  to  cherish  that  ardent  melancholy,  the  offspring 
of  passion  and  of  thought,  which  had  been  so  long  the  familiar 
inmate  of  my  soul. 

When  I sailed  from  Alexandria  the  inundation  of  the  Nile  wras  at 
its  full.  The  whole  valley  of  Egypt  lay  covered  by  its  blood  ; and, 
as  looking  around  me,  I saw  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  shrines, 
palaces,  and  monuments  encirled  by  the  waters,  I could  almost 
fancy  that  I beheld  the  sinking  island  of  Atalantis  on  the  last  even- 
ing its  temples  were  visible  above  the  wave.  Such  varieties,  too,  of 
animation  as  presented  themselves  on  every  side  ! 


538 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


While,  far  as  sight  could  reach,  beneath  as  clear 
And  blue  a heaven  as  ever  bless’d  this  sphere, 

Gardens  and  pillar’d  streets  and  porphyry  domes, 

And  high-built  temples,  fit  to  be  the  homes 
Of  mighty  gods — and  pyramids,  whose  hour 
Outlasts  all  time,  above  the  waters  tower. 

Then,  too,  the  scenes  of  pomp  and  joy  that  make 
One  theatre  of  this  vast  peopled  lake, 

Where  all  that  love,  religion,  commerce  gives 
Of  life  and  motion  ever  moves  and  lives. 

Here,  up  the  steps  of  temples,  from  the  wave, 

Ascending,  in  procession  slow  and  grave, 

Priests  in  white  garments  go  with  sacred  wands 
And  silver  cymbals  gleaming  in  their  hands  ; 

While  there  rich  barks,  fresh  from  those  sunny  tracts 
Far  off,  beyond  the  sounding  cataracts, 

Glide  with  their  precious  lading  to  the  sea, 

Plumes  of  bright  birds,  rhinoceros’  ivory, 

Gems  from  the  Isle  of  Meroe,  and  those  grains 
Of  gold  wash’d  down  by  Abyssinian  rains. 

Here,  where  the  waters  wind  into  a bay 
Shadowy  and  cool,  some  pilgrims  on  their  way 
To  Sals  or  Bubastus,  among  beds 
Of  lotus-flowers,  that  close  above  their  heads, 

Push  their  light  barks,  and  hid,  as  in  a bower, 

Sing,  talk,  or  sleep  away  the  sultry  hour  ; 

"While  haply,  not  far  off  beneath  a bank 
Of  blossoming  acacias,  many  a prank 
Is  play’d  in  the  cool  current  by  a train 
Of  laughing  nymphs,  lovely  as  she  whose  chain 
Around  two  conquerors  of  the  world  was  cast, 

But  for  a third  too  feeble,  broke  at  last. 

Enchanted  with  the  whole  scene,  I lingered  delightedly  on  my 
voyage,  visiting  all  those  luxurious  and  venerable  places  whose 
names  have  been  consecrated  by  the  wonder  of  ages.  At  Sals  I was 
present  during  her  Festival  of  Lamps,  and  read  by  the  blaze  of 
innumerable  lights  those  sublime  words  on  the  temple  of  Nei'tha  : 
“ I am  all  that  has  been,  that  is,  and  that  will  be,  and  no  man  hath 
ever  lifted  my  veil.”  I wandered  among  the  prostrate  obelisks  of 
Heliopolis,  and  saw,  not  without  a sigh,  the  sun  smiling  over  her 
ruins  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  mass  of  perishable  grandeur  that  had 
once  called  itself  in  its  pride  “ The  City  of  the  Sun.”  But  to  the 


Thomas  Moore. 


539 


Isle  of  the  Golden  Venus  was,  I own,  my  fondest  pilgrimage  ; and 
there,  as  I rambled  through  its  shades,  where  bowers  are  the  only 
temples,  I felt  how  far  more  worthy  to  form  the  shrine  of  a deity 
are  the  everlasting  stems  of  the  garden  and  the  grove  than  the  most 
precious  columns  the  inanimate  quarry  can  supply. 

Everywhere  new  pleasures,  new  interests  awaited  me,  and  though 
Melancholy  stood  as  usual  for  ever  near,  her  shadow  fell  but  half- 
way over  my  vagrant  path,  leaving  the  rest  but  more  welcomely 
brilliant  from  the  contrast.  To  relate  my  various  adventures  dur- 
ing this  short  voyage  would  only  detain  me  from  events  far,  far 
more  worthy  of  record.  Amidst  all  this  endless  variety  of  attrac- 
tions the  great  object  of  my  journey  had  been  forgotten  ; the  mys- 
teries of  this  land  of  the  sun  still  remained  to  me  as  much  myste- 
ries as  ever,  and  as  yet  I had  been  initiated  in  nothing  but  its 
pleasures. 

It  was  not  till  that  memorable  evening  when  I first  stood  before 
the  Pyramids  of  Memphis  and  beheld  them  towering  aloft  like  the 
watch-towers  of  Time,  from  whose  summit,  when  about  to  expire, 
he  will  look  his  last — it  was  not  till  this  moment  that  the  great 
secret  announced  in  my  dream  again  rose,  in  all  its  inscrutable 
darkness,  upon  my  thoughts.  There  was  a solemnity  in  the  sun- 
shine resting  upon  those  monuments ; a stillness,  as  of  reverence,  in 
the  air  that  breathed  around  them,  which  seemed  to  steal  like  the 
music  of  past  times  into  my  heart.  I thought  what  myriads  of  the 
wise,  the  beautiful,  and  the  brave  had  sunk  into  dust  since  earth 
first  saw  those  wonders,  and,  in  the  sadness  of  my  soul,  I exclaimed : 
“Must  man  alone,  then,  perish  ? must  minds  and  hearts  be  annihi- 
lated while  pyramids  endure  ? 0 Death,  Death  ! even  upon  these 

everlasting  tablets — the  only  approach  to  immortality  that  kings 
themselves  could  purchase — thou  hast  written  our  doom  awfully 
and  intelligibly,  saying,  ‘ There  is  for  man  no  eternal  mansion  but 
the  grave.  ’ ” 

My  heart  sunk  at  the  thought,  and  for  the  moment  I yielded  to 
that  desolate  feeling  which  overspreads  the  soul  that  hath  no  light 
from  the  future.  But  again  the  buoyancy  of  my  nature  prevailed, 
and,  again  the  willing  dupe  of  vain  dreams,  I deluded  myself  into 
the  belief  of  all  that  my  heart  most  wished  with  that  happy  fa- 
cility which  enables  imagination  to  stand  in  the  place  of  happi- 
ness. “Yes,”  I cried,  “ immortality  must  be  within  man’s  reach, 
and  as  wisdom  alone  is  worthy  of  such  a blessing,  to  the  wise 


540 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


alone  must  the  secret  have  been  revealed.  It  is  said  that  deep 
under  yonder  pyramid  has  lain  for  ages  concealed  the  table  of 
emerald,  on  which  the  thrice-great  Hermes,  in  times  before  the 
flood,  engraved  the  secret  of  alchemy,  which  gives  gold  at  will. 
Why,  then,  maynot  the  mightier,  the  more  godlike  secret  that  gives 
life  at  will  be  recorded  there  also  ? It  was  by  the  power  of  gold, 
of  endless  gold,  that  the  kings  who  now  repose  in  those  massy 
structures  scooped  earth  to  its  very  centre,  and  raised  quarries 
into  the  air,  to  provide  for  themselves  tombs  that  might  outstand 
the  world.  Who  can  tell  but  that  the  gift  of  immortality  was 
also  theirs  ? who  knows  but  that  they  themselves,  triumphant  over 
decay,  still  live,  those  mighty  mansions  which  we  call  tombs  being 
rich  and  everlasting  palaces  within  whose  depths,  concealed  from 
this  withering  world,  they  still  wander  with  the  few  elect  who  have 
been  sharers  of  their  gift  through  a sunless  but  ever-illuminated 
elysium  of  their  own  ? Else,  wherefore  those  structures  ? where- 
fore that  subterranean  realm  by  which  the  whole  valley  of  Egypt 
is  undermined  ? Why,  else,  those  labyrinths,  which  none  of  earth 
have  ever  beheld,  which  none  of  heaven,  except  that  God  who 
stands  with  finger  on  his  hushed  lip,  hath  ever  trodden  ? ” 

While  thus  I indulged  in  fond  dreams,  the  sun,  already  half 
sunk  beneath  the  horizon,  was  taking,  calmly  and  gloriously,  his 
last  look  of  the  Pyramids,  as  he  had  done  evening  after  evening 
for  ages,  till  they  had  grown  familiar  to  him  as  the  earth  itself. 
On  the  side  turned  to  his  ray  they  now  presented  a front  of  daz- 
zling whiteness,  while  on  the  other  their  great  shadows,  lengthening 
away  to  the  eastward,  looked  like  the  first  steps  of  night  hasten- 
ing to  envelop  the  hills  of  Araby  in  her  shade. 

No  sooner  had  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun  disappeared  than  on 
every  housetop  in  Memphis  gay,  gilded  banners  were  seen  waving 
aloft  to  proclaim  his  setting,  while  at  the  same  moment  a full  burst 
of  harmony  was  heard  to  peal  from  all  the  temples  along  the 
shores. 

Startled  from  my  musing  by  these  sounds,  I at  once  recollected 
that  on  that  very  evening  the  great  Festival  of  the  Moon  was  to 
be  celebrated.  On  a little  island,  half-way  over  between  the  gar- 
dens of  Memphis  and  the  eastern  shore,  stood  the  temple  of  that 
goddess — 


Thomas  Moore . 


541 


Whose  beams 

Bring  the  sweet  time  of  night-flowers  and  dreams. 

Not  the  cold  Dian  of  the  North,  who  chains 
In  vestal  ice  the  current  of  young  veins  ; 

But  she  who  haunts  the  gay  Bubastian  grove, 

And  owns  she  sees  from  her  bright  heaven  above 
Nothing  on  earth  to  match  that  heaven  but  love. 

Thus  did  I exclaim,  in  the  words  of  one  of  their  own  Egyptian 
poets,  as,  anticipating  the  various  delights  of  the  festival,  I cast 
away  from  my  mind  all  gloomy  thoughts,  and  hastening  to  my 
little  bark,  in  which  I now  lived  the  life  of  a Nile-bird  on  the  waters, 
steered  my  course  to  the  island  Temple  of  the  Moon. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  rising  of  the  moon,  slow  and  majestic,  as  if  conscious  of 
the  honors  that  awaited  her  upon  earth,  was  welcomed  with  a 
loud  acclaim  from  every  eminence,  where  multitudes  stood  watching 
for  her  first  light.  And  seldom  had  that  light  risen  upon  a more 
beautiful  scene.  The  city  of  Memphis,  still  grand,  though  no  lon- 
ger the  unrivalled  Memphis  that  had  borne  away  from  Thebes  the 
crown  of  supremacy,  and  worn  it  undisputed  through  ages,  now, 
softened  by  the  moonlight  that  harmonized  with  her  decline, 
shone  forth  among  her  lakes,  her  pyramids,  and  her  shrines  like 
one  of  those  dreams  of  human  glory  that  must  ere  long  pass  away. 
Even  already  ruin  was  visible  around  her.  The  sands  of  the  Libyan 
desert  were  gaining  upon  her  like  a sea,  and  there,  among  solitary 
columns  and  sphinxes,  already  half  sunk  from  sight,  Time  seemed 
to  stand  waiting  till  all  that  now  flourished  around  him  should  fall 
beneath  his  desolating  hand  like  the  rest. 

On  the  waters  all  was  gayety  and  life.  As  far  as  eye  could 
reach  the  lights  of  innumerable  boats  were  seen  studding  like 
rubies  the  surface  of  the  stream.  Vessels  of  every  kind,  from  the 
light  coracle,  built  for  shooting  down  the  cataracts,  to  the  large 
yacht  that  glides  slowly  to  the  sound  of  flutes — all  were  afloat  for 
this  sacred  festival,  filled  with  crowds  of  the  young  and  the  gay,  not 
only  from  Memphis  and  Babylon,  but  from  cities  sti  1 farther  re- 
moved from  the  festal  scene. 

As  I approached  the  island  I could  see  glittering  through  the 
trees  on  the  bank  the  lamps  of  the  pilgrims  hastening  to  the  cere- 


542  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

mony.  Landing  in  the  direction  wliich  those  lights  pointed  out,  I 
soon  joined  the  crowd,  and,  passing  through  a long  alley  of  sphinxes, 
whose  spangling  marble  gleamed  out  from  the  dark  sycamores 
around  them,  reached  in  a short  time  the  grand  vestibule  of  the 
temple,  where  I found  the  ceremonies  of  the  evening  already  com- 
menced. 

In  this  vast  hall,  which  was  surrounded  by  a double  range  of 
columns,  and  lay  open  overhead  to  the  stars  of  heaven,  I saw  a 
group  of  young  maidens  moving  in  a sort  of  measured  step,  between 
walk  and  dance,  round  a small  shrine,  upon  which  stood  one  of 
those  sacred  birds  that,  on  account  of  the  variegated  color  of  their 
wings,  are  dedicated  to  the  worship  of  the  moon.  The  vestibule  was 
dimly  lighted,  there  being  but  one  lamp  of  naphtha  hung  on  each 
of  the  great  pillars  that  encircled  it.  But,  having  taken  my  station 
beside  one  of  those  pillars,  I had  a clear  view  of  the  young  dancers 
as  in  succession  they  passed  me. 

The  drapery  of  all  was  white  as  snow,  and  each  wore  loosely  be- 
neath the  bosom  a dark-blue  zone  or  bandelet,  studded  like  the  skies 
at  midnight  with  small  silver  stars.  Through  their  dark  locks  was 
wreathed  the  white  lily  of  the  Nile,  that  sacred  flower  being  ac- 
counted no  less  welcome  to  the  moon  than  the  golden  blossoms  of 
the  bean-flower  are  known  to  be  to  the  sun.  As  they  passed  under 
the  lamp  a gleam  of  light-  flashed  from  their  bosoms,  which,  I could 
perceive,  was  the  reflection  of  a small  mirror  that,  in  the  manner 
of  the  women  of  the  East,  each  of  the  dancers  wore  beneath  her 
left  shoulder. 

There  was  no  music  to  regulate  their  steps ; but  as  they  grace- 
fully went  round  the  bird  on  the  shrine,  some  to  the  beat  of  the  Cas- 
tanet, some  to  the  shrill  ring  of  a sistrum,  which  they  held  uplifted 
in  the  attitude  of  their  own  divine  Isis,  continued  harmoniously  to 
time  the  cadence  of  their  feet,  while  others  at  every  step  shook  a 
small  chain  of  silver,  whose  sound,  mingling  with  those  of  the  casta- 
nets and  sistrums,  produced  a wild  but  not  unpleasing  harmony. 

They  seemed  all  lovely,  but  there  was  one,  whose  face  the  light 
had  not  yet  reached,  so  downcast  she  held  it,  who  attracted  and  at 
length  riveted  all  my  looks  and  thoughts.  I knew  not  why,  but 
there  was  something  in  those  half-seen  features,  a charm  in  the 
very  shadow  that  hung  over  their  imagined  beauty,  which  took  my 
fancy  more  than  all  the  outshining  loveliness  of  her  companions. 
So  enchained  was  I by  this  coy  mystery  that  her  alone  of  all  the 


Thomas  Moore . 


543 


group  could  I either  see  or  think  of,  her  alone  I watched  as  with 
the  same  downcast  brow  she  glided  gently  and  aerially  round  the 
altar,  as  if  her  presence,  like  that  of  a spirit,  was  something  to  be 
felt,  not  seen. 

Suddenly,  while  I gazed,  the  loud  crash  of  a thousand  cymbals 
was  heard,  the  massy  gates  of  the  temple  flew  open  as  if  by  magic, 
and  a flood  of  radiance  from  the  illuminated  aisle  filled  the  whole 
vestibule,  while  at  the  same  instant,  as  if  the  light  and  the  sounds 
were  born  together,  a peal  of  rich  harmony  came  mingling  with  the 
radiance. 

It  was  then,  by  that  light,  which  shone  full  upon  the  young 
maiden’s  features,  as,  starting  at  the  sudden  blaze,  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  the  portal  and  as  quickly  let  fall  their  lids  again — it  was 
• then  I beheld  what  even  my  own  ardent  imagination,  in  its  most 
vivid  dreams  of  beauty,  had  never  pictured.  Not  Psyche  herself, 
when  pausing  on  the  threshold  of  heaven,  while  its  first  glories  fell 
on  her  dazzled  lids,  could  have  looked  more  purely  beautiful  or 
blushed  with  a.  more  innocent  shame.  Often  as  I had  felt  the 
power  of  looks,  none  had  ever  entered  into  my  soul  so  deeply.  It 
was  a new  feeling,  a new  sense,  coming  as  suddenly  upon  me  as  that 
radiance  into  the  vestibule,  and.  at  once  filling  my  whole  being, 
and  had  that  bright  vision  but  lingered  another  moment  before  my 
eyes,  I should  in  my  transport  have  wholly  forgotten  who  I was  and 
where,  and  thrown  myself  in  prostrate  adoration  at  her  feet. 

But  scarcely  had  that  gush  of  harmony  been  heard  when  the 
sacred  bird,  which  had  till  now  been  standing  motionless  as  an 
image,  spread  wide  his  wings  and  flew  into  the  temple,  while  his 
graceful  young  worshippers,  with  a fleetness  like  his  own,  followed, 
and  she,  who  had  left  a dream  in  my  heart  never  to  be  forgotten, 
vanished  along  with  the  rest.  As  she  went  rapidly  past  the  pillar 
against  which  I leaned,  the  ivy  that  encircled  it  caught  in  her 
drapery  and  disengaged  some  Ornament,  which  fell  to  the  ground. 
It  was  the  small  mirror  which  I had  seen  shining  on  her  bosom. 
Hastily  and  tremulously  I picked  it  up,  and  hurried  to  restore  it, 
but  she  was  already  lost  to  my  eyes  in  the  crowd. 

In  vain  did  I try  to  follow  ; the  aisles  were  already  filled,  and 
numbers  of  eager  pilgrims  pressed  towards  the  portal.  But  the 
servants  of  the  temple  denied  all  further  entrance,  and  still,  as  I 
presented  myself,  their  white  wands  barred  the  way.  Perplexed 
and  irritated  amid  that  crowd  of  faces,  regarding  all  as  enemies 


544 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


that  impeded  my  progress,  I stood  on  tiptoe,  gazing  into  the  busy 
aisles,  and  with  a heart  beating  as  I caught  from  time  to  time  a 
glimpse  of  some  spangled  zone  or  lotus-wreath,  which  led  me  to 
fancy  that  I had  discovered  the  fair  object  of  my  search.  But  it 
was  all  in  vain.  In  every  direction  files  of  sacred  nymphs  were 
moving,  but  nowhere  could  I discover  her  whom  alone  I sought. 

In  this  state  of  breathless  agitation  did  I stand  for  some  time, 
bewildered  with  the  confusion  of  faces  and  lights,  as  well  as  with 
the  clouds  of  incense  that  rolled  around  me,  till,  fevered  and  impa- 
tient, I could  endure  it  no  longer.  Forcing  my  way  out  of  the 
vestibule  into  the  cool  air,  I hurried  back  through  the  alley  of 
sphinxes  to  the  shore,  and  flung  myself  into  my  boat. 

There  lies  to  the  north  of  Memphis  a solitary  lake  (which  at  this 
season  of  the  year  mingles  with  the  rest  of  the  waters),  upon  whose 
shores  stands  the  Necropolis,  or  City  of  the  Dead — a place  of  melan- 
choly grandeur,  covered  over  with  shrines  and  pyramids,  where  many 
a kingly  head,  proud  even  in  death,  has  lain  awaiting  through  long 
ages  the  resurrection  of  its  glories.  Through  a range  of  sepulchral 
grots  underneath,  the  humbler  denizens  of  the  tomb  are  deposited, 
looking  out  on  each  successive  generation  that  visits  them  with 
the  same  face  and  features  they  wore  centuries  ago.  Every  plant 
and  tree  consecrated  to  death,  from  the  asphodel-flower  to  the 
mystic  plantain,  lends  its  sweetness  or  shadow  to  this  place  of 
tombs,  and  the  only  noise  that  disturbs  its  eternal  calm  is  the  low 
humming  sound  of  the  priests  at  prayer  when  a new  inhabitant  is 
added  to  the  Silent  City. 

It  was  towards  this  place  of  death  that,  in  a mood  of  mind,  as 
usual,  half  gloomy,  half  bright,  I now,  almost  unconsciously,  directed 
my  bark.  The  form  of  the  young  priestess  was  continually  before 
me.  That  one  bright  look  of  hers,  the  very  remembrance  of  which 
was  worth  all  the  actual  smiles  of  others,  never  for  a moment  left 
my  mind.  Absorbed  in  such  thoughts,  I continued  to  row  on, 
scarce  knowing  whither  I went,  till  at  length,  startled  to  find  myself 
within  the  shadow  of  the  City  of  the  Dead,  I looked  up,  and  beheld 
rising  in  succession  before  me  pyramid  beyond  pyramid,  each 
towering  more  loftily  than  the  other,  while  all  were  out-topped  in 
grandeur  by  one  upon  whose  summit  the  bright  moon  rested  as  on 
a pedestal. 

Drawing  nearer  to  the  shore,  which  was  sufficiently  elevated  to 
raise  this  silent  city  of  tombs  above  the  level  of  the  inundation,  I 


Thomas  Moore. 


545 


rested  my  oar,  and  allowed  the  boat  to  rock  idly  upon  the  water, 
while,  in  the  meantime,  my  thoughts,  left  equally  without  direc- 
tion, were  allowed  to  fluctuate  as  idly.  How  vague  and  various 
were  the  dreams  that  then  floated  through  my  mind,  that  bright 
vision  of  the  temple  still  mingling  itself  with  all ! Sometimes  she 
stood  before  me,  like  an  aerial  spirit,  as  pure  as  if  that  element  of 
music  and  light  into  which  I had  seen  her  vanish  was  her  only 
dwelling.  Sometimes,  animated  with  passion  and  kindling  into  a 
creature  of  earth,  she  seemed  to  lean  towards  me  with  looks  of  ten- 
derness which  it  were  worth  worlds  but  for  one  instant  to  inspire  ; 
and  again,  as  the  dark  fancies  that  ever  haunted  me  recurred,  I saw 
her  cold,  parched,  and  blackening  amid  the  gloom  of  those  eternal 
sejjulchres  before  me  ! 

Turning  away  with  a shudder  from  the  cemetery  at  this  thought, 
I heard  the  sound  of  an  oar  plying  swiftly  through  the  water,  and 
in  a few  moments  saw  shooting  past  me  towards  the  shore  a small 
boat  in  which  sat  two  female  figures,  muffled  up  and  veiled.  Hav- 
ing landed  them  not  far  from  the  spot  where,  under  the  shadow  of 
a tomb  on  the  bank,  I lay  concealed,  the  boat  again  departed  with 
the  same  fleetness  over  the  flood. 

Never  had  the  prospect  of  a lively  adventure  come  more  welcome 
to  me  than  at  this  moment,,  when  my  busy  fancy  was  employed  in 
weaving  such  chains  for  my  heart  as  threatened  a bondage  of  all 
others  the  most  difficult  to  break.  To  become  enamoured  thus  of 
a creature  of  my  own  imagination  was  the  worst,  because  the  most 
lasting,  of  follies.  It  is  only  reality  that  can  afford  any  chance  of 
dissolving  such  spells,  and  the  idol  I was  now  creating  to  myself 
must  for  ever  remain  ideal.  Any  pursuit,  therefore,  that  seemed 
likely  to  divert  me  from  such  thoughts — to  bring  back  my  imagina- 
tion to  earth  and  reality  from  the  vague  region  in  which  it  had 
been  wandering — was  a relief  far  too  seasonable  not  to  be  welcomed 
with  eagerness. 

I had  watched  the  course  which  the  two  figures  took,  and,  having 
hastily  fastened  my  boat  to  the  bank,  stepped  gently  on  shore,  and, 
at  a little  distance,  followed  them.  The  windings  through'  which 
they  led  were  intricate;  but  by  the  bright  light  of  the  moon  I was 
enabled  to  keep  their  forms  in  view,  as  with  rapid  step  they  glided 
among  the  monuments.  At  length,  in  the  shade  of  a small  pyra- 
mid whose  peak  barely  surmounted  the  plane-trees  that  grew  nigh, 
they  vanished  from  my  sight.  I hastened  to  the  spot,  but  there 


546 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


was  not  a sign  of  life  around,  and,  had  my  creed  extended  to 
another  world,  I might  have  fancied  these  forms  were  spirits  sent 
down  from  thence  to  mock  me,  so  instantaneously  had  they  disap- 
peared. I searched  through  the  neighboring  grove,  but  all  there 
was  still  as  death.  At  length,  in  examining  one  of  the  sides 
of  the  pyramid,  which  for  a few  feet  from  the  ground  was  fur- 
nished with  steps,  I found,  midway  between  peak  and  base,  a part 
of  its  surface  which,  although  presenting  to  the  eye  an  appearance 
of  smoothness,  gave  to  the  touch,  I thought,  indications  of  a con- 
cealed opening. 

After  a variety  of  efforts  and  experiments,  I at  last,  more  by  acci- 
dent than  skill,  pressed  the  spring  that  commanded  this  hidden 
aperture.  In  an  instant  the  portal  slid  aside,  and  disclosed  a nar- 
row stairway  within,  the  two  or  three  first  steps  of  which  were  dis- 
cernible by  the  moonlight,  while  the  rest  were  all  lost  in  utter 
darkness.  Though  it  was  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  persons 
whom  I had  been  pursuing  would  have  ventured  to  pass  through 
this  gloomy  opening,  yet  to  account  for  their  disappearance  other- 
wise was  still  more  difficult.  At  all  events  my  curiosity  was  now 
too  eager  in  the  chase  to  relinquish  it ; the  spirit  of  adventure 
once  raised  could  not  be  so  easily  laid.  Accordingly,  having  sent 
up  a gay  prayer  to  that  bliss-loving  queen  whose  eye  alone  was  upon 
me,  I passed  through  the  portal  and  descended  into  the  pyramid. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  stairway  I found  myself  in  a low,  narrow 
passage,  through  which,  without  stooping  almost  to  the  earth,  it 
was  impossible  to  proceed.  Though  leading  through  a multiplicity 
of  dark  windings,  this  way  seemed  but  little  to  advance  my  progress, 
its  course,  I perceived,  being  chiefly  circular,  and  gathering,  at 
every  turn,  but  a deeper  intensity  of  darkness. 

“ Can  anything/’  thought  I,  “of  human  kind  sojourn  here?” 
and  had  scarcely  asked  myself  the  question  when  the  path  opened 
into  a long  gallery,  at  the  farthest  end  of  which  a gleam  of  light 
was  visible.  This  welcome  glimmer  appeared  to  issue  from  some  cell 
or  alcove,  in  which  the  right-hand  wall  of  the  gallery  terminated, 
and,  breathless  with  expectation,  I stole  gently  towards  it. 

Arrived  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  a scene  presented  itself  to  my 
eyes  for  which  my  fondest  expectations  of  adventure  could  not 


Thomas  Moore . 


547 


have  prepared  me.  The  place  from  which  the  light  proceeded  was 
a small  chapel,  of  whose  interior,  from  the  dark  recess  in  which  I 
stood,  I could  take,  unseen  myself,  a full  and  distinct  view.  Over 
the  walls  of  this  oratory  were  painted  some  of  those  various  sym- 
bols by  which  the  mystic  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians  loves  to  shadow 
out  the  History  of  the  Soul — the  winged  globe  with  a serpent,  the 
rays  descended  from  above,  like  a glory,  and  the  Theban  beetle,  as 
he  comes  forth  after  the  waters  have  passed  away,  and  the  first  sun- 
beam falls  on  his  regenerated  wings. 

In  the  middle  of  the  chapel,  on  a low  altar  of  granite,  lay  a life- 
less female  form,  enshrined  within  a case  of  crystal  (as  it  is  the 
custom  to  preserve  the  dead  in  Ethiopia)  and  looking  as  freshly 
beautiful  as  if  the  soul  had  but  a few  hours  departed.  Among  the 
emblems  of  death,  on  the  front  of  the  altar,  were  a slender  lotus- 
branch  broke  in  two,  and  a small  bird  just  winging  its  flight  from 
the  spray. 

To  these  memorials  of  the  dead,  however,  I paid  but  little  at- 
tention, for  there  was  a living  object  there  upon  which  my  eyes 
were  now  intently  fixed. 

The  lamp  by  which  the  whole  of  the  chapel  was  illuminated 
was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  pale  image  in  the  shrine,  and  between 
its  light  and  me  stood  a female  form,  bending  over  the  monument, 
as  if  to  gaze  upon  the  silent  features  within.  The  position  in 
which  this  figure  was  placed,  intercepting  a strong  light,  afforded 
me  at  first  but  an  imperfect  and  shadowy  view  of  it.  Yet  even 
at  this  mere  outline  I felt  my  heart  beat  high,  and  memory  had  no 
less  share,  as  it  proved,  in  this  feeling  than  imagination.  Eor  on 
the  head  changing  its  position,  so  as  to  let  a gleam  fall  upon  the 
features,  I saw,  with  a transport  which  had  almost  led  me  to  betray 
my  lurking-place,  that  it  was  she — the  young  worshipper  of  Isis — the 
same,  the  very  same  whom  I had  seen,  brightening  the  holy  place 
where  she  stood,  and  looking  like  an  inhabitant  of  some  purer  world. 

The  movement  by  which  she  had  now  afforded  me  an  opportunity 
of  recognizing  her  was  made  in  raising  from  the  shrine  a small 
cross  of  silver  which  lay  directly  over  the  bosom  of  the  lifeless 
figure.  Bringing  it  close  to  her  lips,  she  kissed  it  with  a religious 
fervor ; then,  turning  her  eyes  mournfully  upwards,  held  them 
fixed  with  a degree  of  inspired  earnestness,  as  if  at  that  moment, 
in  direct  communion  with  heaven,  they  saw  neither  roof  nor  any 
other  earthly  barrier  between  them  and  the  skies. 


54§ 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


What  a power  is  there  in  innocence  ! whose  very  helplessness  is  its 
safeguard,  in  whose  presence  even  Passion  himself  stands  abashed, 
and  turns  worshipper  at  the  very  altar  which  he  came  to  despoil. 
She  who,  but  a short  hour  before,  had  presented  herself  to  my  im- 
agination as  something  I could  have  risked  immortality  to  win ; 
she  whom  gladly  from  the  floor  of  her  own  lighted  temple,  in  the 
very  face  of  its  proud  ministers,  I would  have  borne  away  in  tri- 
umph, and  dared  all  punishments,  divine  and  human,  to  make  her 
mine,  that  very  creature  was  now  before  me,  as  if  thrown  by  fate 
itself  into  my  power,  standing  there,  beautiful  and  alone,  with 
nothing  but  her  innocence  for  her  guard.  Yet  no,  so  touching  was 
the  purity  of  the  whole  scene,  so  calm  and  august  that  protection 
which  the  dead  extended  over  the  living,  that  every  earthly  feeling 
was  forgotten  as  I gazed,  and  love  itself  became  exalted  into  reve- 
rence. 

But  entranced  as  I felt  in  witnessing  such  a scene,  thus  to  enjoy 
it  by  stealth  seemed  to  me  a wrong,  a sacrilege ; and,  rather  than 
let  her  eyes  encounter  the  flash  of  mine,  or  disturb  by  a whisper 
that  sacred  silence  in  which  youth  and  death  held  communion 
through  undying  love,  I would  have  suffered  my  heart  to  break, 
without  a murmur,  where  I stood.  Gently,  as  if  life  itself  de- 
pended on  my  every  movement,  I stole  away  from  that  tranquil  and 
holy  scene,  leaving  it  still  holy  and  tranquil  as  I had  found  it,  and, 
gliding  back  through  the  same  passages  and  windings  by  which  I 
had  entered,  reached  again  the  narrow  stairway,  and  reascended 
into  light. 

The  sun  had  just  risen,  and  from  the  summit  of  the  Arabian 
hills  was  pouring  down  his  beams  into  that  vast  valley  of  waters,  as 
if  proud  of  last  night’s  homage  to  his  own  divine  Isis,  now  fading 
away  in  the  superior  splendor  of  her  Lord.  My  first  impulse  was 
to  fly  at  once  from  this  dangerous  spot,  and  in  new  loves  and  plea- 
sures seek  forgetfulness  of  the  wondrous  scene  I had  just  witnessed. 
“ Once,”  I exclaimed,  “ out  of  the  circle  of  this  enchantment,  I 
know  too  well  my  own  susceptibility  to  new  impressions  to  feel  any 
doubt  that  I shall  soon  break  the  spell  that  is  now  around  me.” 

But  vain  were  all  my  efforts  and  resolves.  Even  while  swearing  to 
fly  that  spot,  I found  my  steps  still  lingering  fondly  round  the  pyra- 
mid, my  eyes  still  turned  towards  the  portal  which  severed  this 
enchantress  from  the  world  of  the  living.  Hour  after  hour  did  I 
wander  through  that  City  of  Silence,  till  already  it  was  midday, 


Thomas  Moore. 


549 


and,  under  the  sun’s  meridian  eye,  the  mighty  pyramid  of  pyra- 
mids stood,  like  a great  spirit,  shadowless. 

Again  did  those  wild  and  passionate  feelings,  which  for  the  mo- 
ment her  presence  had  subdued  into  reverence,  return  to  take,  pos- 
session of  my  imagination  and  my  senses.  I even  reproached  my- 
self for  the  awe  that  had  held  me  spellbound  before  her.  “ What,” 
thought  I,  “ would  my  companions  of  the  garden  say,  did  they 
know  that  their  chief,  he  whose  path  love  had  strewed  with  tro- 
phies, was  now  pining  for  a simple  Egyptian  girl,  in  whose  presence 
he  had  not  dared  to  utter  a single  sigh,  and  who  had  vanquished 
the  victor  without  even  knowing  her  triumph  ? ” 

A blush  came  over  my  cheek  at  the  humiliating  thought,  and  I 
determined  at  all  risks  to  await  her  coming.  That  she  should  be 
an  inmate  of  those  gloomy  caverns  seemed  inconceivable  ; nor  did 
there  appear  to  be  any  egress  out  of  their  depths  but  by  the  pyra- 
mid. Again,  therefore,  like  a sentinel  of  the  dead,  did  I pace  up 
and  down  among  those  tombs,  contrasting  mournfully  the  burning 
fever  in  my  own  veins  with  the  cold  quiet  of  those  who  lay  slum- 
bering around. 

At  length  the  intense  glow  of  the  sun  over  my  head,  and,  still 
more,  that  ever  restless  agitation  in  my  heart,  became  too  much 
for  even  strength  like  mine  to  endure.  Exhausted,  I threw  my- 
self down  at  the  base  of  the  pyramid,  choosing  my  place  directly 
under  the  portal,  where,  even  should  slumber  surprise  me,  my  heart, 
if  not  my  ear,  might  still  keep  watch,  and  her  footstep,  light  as  it 
was,  could  not  fail  to  awake  me. 

After  many  an  ineffectual  struggle  against  drowsiness,  I at  length 
sunk  into  sleep,  but  not  into  forgetfulness.  The  same  image  still 
haunted  me,  in  every  variety  of  shape  with  which  imagination, 
assisted  by  memory,  could  invest  it.  Now,  like  the  goddess  Neitha, 
upon  her  throne  at  Sais,  she  seemed  to  sit,  with  the  veil  just  raised 
from  that  brow  which  till  then  no  mortal  had  ever  beheld,  and 
now,  like  the  beautiful  enchantress  Rhodope,  I saw  her  rise  from 
out  the  pyramid  in  which  she  had  dwelt  for  ages — 

“ Fair  Rhodope,  as  story  tells, 

The  bright  unearthly  nymph,  who  dwells 
Mid  sunless  gold  and  jewels  hid, 

The  Lady  of  the  Pyramid  ! ” 

So  long  had  my  sleep  continued  that,  when  I awoke,  I found  the 


550 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


moon  again  resplendent  above  tlie  horizon.  But  all  around  was 
looking  tranquil  and  lifeless  as  before,  nor  did  a print  on  the  grass 
betray  that  any  foot  had  passed  there  since  my  own.  Refreshed, 
however,  by  my  long  rest,  and  with  a fancy  still  more  excited  by 
the  mystic  wonders  of  which  I had  been  dreaming,  I now  resolved 
to  revisit  the  chapel  in  the  pyramid,  and  put  an  end,  if  possible,  to 
this  strange  mystery  that  haunted  me. 

Having  learned,  from  the  experience  of  the  preceding  night, 
the  inconvenience  of  encountering  those  labyrinths  without  a light, 
I now  hastened  to  provide  myself  with  a lamp  from  my  boat. 
Tracking  my  way  back  with  some  difficulty  to  the  shore,  I there 
found  not  only  my  lamp,  but  also  some  dates  and  dried  fruits,  of 
which  I was  always  provided  with  store  for  my  roving  life  upon  the 
waters,  and  which,  after  so  many  hours  of  abstinence,  were  now  a 
most  welcome  and  necessary  relief. 

Thus  prepared,  I again  ascended  the  pyramid,  and  was  proceed- 
ing to  search  out  the  secret  spring,  when  a loud,  dismal  noise  was 
heard  at  a distance,  to  which  all  the  melancholy  echoes  of  the 
cemetery  gave  answer.  The  sound  came,  I knew,  from  the  great 
temple  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  was  the  sort  of  shriek  which 
its  gates — the  Grates  of  Oblivion,  as  they  are  called — used  always  to 
send  forth  from  their  hinges  when  opening  at  night  to  receive  the 
newly-landed  dead. 

I had  more  than  once  before  heard  that  sound,  and  always  with 
sadness  ; but  at  this  moment  it  thrilled  through  me  like  a voice  of 
ill  omen,  and  I almost  doubted  whether  I should  not  abandon  my  en- 
terprise. The  hesitation,  however,  was  but  momentary  ; even  while 
it  passed  through  my  mind  I had  touched  the  spring  of  the  portal. 
In  a few  seconds  more  I was  again  in  the  passage  beneath  the  pyra- 
mid, and,  being  enabled  by  the  light  of  my  lamp  to  follow  the  wind- 
ings more  rapidly,  soon  found  myself  at  the  door  of  the  small  chapel 
in  the  gallery. 

I entered,  still  awed,  though  there  was  now,  alas  ! nought  living 
within.  The  young  priestess  had  vanished  like  a spirit  into  the 
darkness,  and  all  the  rest  remained  as  I had  left  it  on  the  preceding 
night.  The  lamp  still  stood  burning  upon  the  crystal  shrine  ; the 
cross  was  lying  where  the  hands  of  the  young  mourner  had  placed 
it,  and  the  cold  image  within  the  shrine  wore  still  the  same  tran- 
quil look,  as  if  resigned  to  the  solitude  of  death — of  all  lone  things 
the  loneliest.  Remembering  the  lips  that  I had  seen  kiss  that  cross. 


Thomas  Moore. 


551 


and  kindling  with  the  recollection,  I raised  it  passionately  to  my 
own  ; but  the  dead  eyes,  I thought,  met  mine,  and,  awed  and  sad- 
dened in  the  midst  of  my  ardor,  I replaced  the  cross  upon  the 
shrine. 

I had  now  lost  every  clue  to  the  object  of  my  pursuit,  and,  with 
all  that  sullen  satisfaction  which  certainty,  even  when  unwelcome, 
brings,  was  about  to  retrace  my  steps  slowly  to  earth,  when,  as  I 
held  forth  my  lamp  on  leaving  the  chapel,  I perceived  that  the  gal- 
lery, instead  of  terminating  here,  took  a sudden  and  snake-like 
bend  to  the  left,  which  had  before  eluded  my  observation,  and  which 
seemed  to  give  promise  of  a pathway  still  farther  into  those  recesses. 
Reanimated  by  this  discovery,  which  opened  a new  source  of  hope 
to  my  heart,  I cast,  for  a moment,  a hesitating  look  at  my  lamp,  as 
if  to  enquire  whether  it  would  be  faithful  through  the  gloom  I was 
about  to  encounter,  and  then,  without  further  consideration,  rushed 
eagerly  forward. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

The  path  led,  for  a while,  through  the  same  sort  of  narrow 
windings  as  those  which  I had  before  encountered  in  descending  the 
stairway,  and  at  length  opened,  in  a similar  manner,  into  a straight 
and  steep  gallery,  along  each  side  of  which  stood,  closely  ranged 
and  upright,  a file  of  lifeless  bodies,  whose  glassy  eyes  appeared  to 
glare  upon  me  preternaturally  as  I passed. 

Arrived  at  the  end  of  this  gallery,  I found  my  hopes  for  the 
second  time  vanish,  as  the  path,  it  was  manifest,  extended  no  fur- 
ther. The  only  object  I was  able  to  discern  by  the  glimmering  of 
my  lamp,  which  now  burned  every  minute  fainter  and  fainter,  was 
the  mouth  of  a huge  well  that  lay  gaping  before  me — a reservoir  of 
darkness,  black  and  unfathomable.  It  now  crossed  my  memory 
that  I had  once  heard  of  such  wells  as  being  used  occasionally  for 
passages  by  the  priests.  Leaning  down,  therefore,  over  the  edge,  I 
examined  anxiously  all  within,  in  order  to  see  if  it  affoi  led  the 
means  of  effecting  a descent  into  the  chasm  ; but  the  sides,  I could 
perceive,  were  hard  and  smooth  as  glass,  being  varnished  all  over 
with  that  sort  of  dark  pitch  which  the  Dead  Sea  throws  out  upon 
its  slimy  shore. 

After  a more  attentive  scrutiny,  however,  I observed,  at  the  depth 
of  a few  feet,  a sort  of  iron  step  projecting  dimly  from  the  side,  and 


552 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


below  it  another,  which,  though  hardly  perceptible,  was  just  suffi- 
cient to  encourage  an  adventurous  foot  to  the  trial.  Though  all 
hope  of  tracing  the  young  priestess  was  now  at  an  end — it  being  im- 
possible that  female  foot  should  have  ventured  on  this  descent — 
}*et,  as  I had  engaged  so  far  in  the  adventure,  and  there  was,  at 
least,  a mystery  to  be  unravelled,  I determined  at  all  hazards  to  ex- 
plore the  chasm.  Placing  my  lamp,  therefore  (which  was  hollowed 
at  the  bottom,  so  as  to  be  worn  like  a helmet),  firmly  upon  my  head, 
and  having  thus  both  hands  at  liberty  for  exertion,  1 set  my  foot 
cautiously  on  the  iron  step,  and  descended  into  the  well. 

I found  the  same  footing  at  regular  intervals  to  a considerable 
depth,  and  had  already  counted  near  a hundred  of  these  steps  when 
the  ladder  altogether  ceased,  and  I could  descend  no  further.  In 
vain  did  I stretch  down  my  foot  in  search  of  support — the  hard, 
slippery  sides  were  all  that  it  encountered.  At  length,  stooping  my 
head  so  as  to  let  the  light  fall  below,  I observed  an  opening  or  win- 
dow directly  above  the  step  on  which  I stood,  and,  taking  for 
granted  that  the  way  must  lie  in  that  direction,  contrived  to  clam- 
ber, with  no  small  difficulty,  through  the  aperture. 

I now  found  myself  on  a rude  and  narrow  stairway,  the  steps  of 
which  were  cut  out  of  the  living  rock,  and  wound  spirally  downward 
in  the  same  direction  as  the  well.  Almost  dizzy  wTith  the  descent, 
which  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  end,  I at  last  reached  the  bottom, 
where  a pair  of  massy  iron  gates  were  closed  directly  across  my  path, 
as  if  wholly  to  forbid  any  further  progress.  Massy  and  gigantic,  how- 
ever, as  they  were,  I found,  to  my  surprise,  that  the  hand  of  an 
infant  might  have  opened  them  with  ease,  so  readily  did  their  stu- 
pendous folds  give  way  to  my  touch, 

“ Light  as  a lime-bush,  that  receives 
Some  wandering  bird  among  its  leaves.” 

No  sooner,  however,  had  I passed  through  than  the  astounding 
din  with  which  the  gates  clashed  together  ftgain  was  such  as  might 
have  awakened  death  itself.  It  seemed  as  if  every  echo  throughout 
that  vast  subterranean  world,  from  the  Catacombs  of  Alexandria  to 
Thebes’s  Valley  of  Kings,  had  caught  up  and  repeated  the  thunder- 
ing sound. 

Startled  as  I was  by  the  crash,  not  even  this  supernatural  clangor 
could  divert  my  attention  from  the  sudden  light  that  now  broke 
around  me — soft,  warm,  and  welcome,  as  are  the  stars  of  his  own 


Thomas  Moore . 


553 


South  to  the  eyes  of  the  mariner  who  has  long  been  wandering 
through  the  cold  seas  of  the  North.  Looking  for  the  source  of  this 
splendor,  I saw  through  an  archway  opposite  a long  illuminated 
alley  stretching  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  and  fenced  on 
one  side  with  thickest  of  odoriferous  shrubs,  while  along  the  other 
extended  a line  of  lofty  arcades  from  which  the  light  that  filled  the 
whole  area  issued.  As  soon,  too,  as  the  din  of  the  deep  echoes  had 
subsided  there  stole  gradually  on  my  ear  a strain  of  choral  music, 
which  appeared  to  come  mellowed  and  sweetened  in  its  passage 
through  many  a spacious  hall  within  those  shining  arcades,  while 
among  the  voices  I could  distinguish  some  female  tones,  which, 
towering  high  and  clear  above  all  the  rest,  formed  the  spire,  as  it 
were,  into  which  the  harmony  tapered  as  it  rose. 

So  excited  was  my  fancy  by  this  sudden  enchantment  that,  though 
never  had  I caught  a sound  from  the  fair  Egyptian’s  lips,  I yet  per- 
suaded myself  that  the  voice  I now  heard  was  hers,  sounding  high- 
est and  most  heavenly  of  all  that  choir,  and  calling  to  me,  like  a 
distant  spirit,  from  its  sphere.  Animated  by  this  thought,  I flew 
forward  to  the  archway,  but  found,  to  my  mortification,  that  it  was 
guarded  by  a trelliswork,  whose  bars,  though  invisible  at  a distance, 
resisted  all  my  efforts  to  force  them. 

While  occupied  in  these  ineffectual  struggles,  I perceived,  to  the 
left  of  the  archway,  a dark  cavernous  opening  which  seemed  to  lead 
in  a direction  parallel  to  the  lighted  arcades.  Notwithstanding, 
however,  my  impatience,  the  as£>ect  of  this  passage,  as  I looked 
shudderingly  into  it,  chilled  my  very  blood.  It  was  not  so  much 
darkness  as  a sort  of  livid  and  ghastly  twilight,  from  which  a damp, 
like  that  of  death-vaults,  exhaled,  and  through  which,  if  my  eyes 
did  not  deceive  me,  pale,  phantom-like  shapes  were  at  that  very 
moment  hovering. 

Looking  anxiously  round  to  discover  some  less  formidable  outlet, 
I saw,  over  the  vast  folding  gates  through  which  I had  just  passed, 
a blue,  tremulous  flame,  which,  after  playing  for  a few  seconds  over 
the  dark  ground  of  the  pediment,  settled  gradually  into  characters 
of  light,  and  formed  the  following  words  ; 

You  who  would  try 
Yon  terrible  track, 

To  live  or  to  die, 

But  ne’er  to  look  back— 


554 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


You  who  aspire 

To  be  purified  there 
By  the  terrors  of  Fire, 

Of  Water,  and  Air — 

If  danger  and  pain 
And  death  you  despise, 

On  ; for  again 
Into  light  you  shall  rise ; 

Rise  into  light 
With  that  Secret  Divine, 

Now  shrowded  from  sight 
By  the  Veils  of  the  Shrine! 

But  if — 

Here  the  letters  faded  away  into  a dead  blank,  more  awfully  intel- 
ligible than  the  most  eloquent  words. 

A new  hope  now  flashed  across  me.  The  dream  of  the  garden, 
which  had  been  for  some  time  almost  forgotten,  returned  freshly  to 
my  mind.  “Am  I,  then,”  I exclaimed,  “in  the  path  to  the  pro- 
mised mystery  ? and  shall  the  great  secret  of  Eternal  Life  indeed 
be  mine  ? ” 

“Yes  ! ” seemed  to  answer  out  of  the  air  that  spirit-voice  which 
still  was  heard  at  a distance  crowning  the  choir  with  its  single 
sweetness.  I hailed  the  omen  with  transport.  Love  and  immor- 
tality both  beckoning  me  onward — who  would  give  even  a thought 
to  fear  with  two  such  bright  liop>es  in  prospect ! Having  invoked 
and  blessed  that  unknown  enchantress  whose  steps  had  led  me  to 
this  abode  of  mystery  and  knowledge,  I instantly  plunged  into  the 
chasm. 

Instead  of  that  vague,  spectral  twilight  which  had  at  first  met 
my  eye,  I now  found,  as  I entered,  a thick  darkness,  which,  though 
far  less  horrible,  was,  at  this  moment,  still  more  disconcerting,  as 
my  lamp,  which  had  been  for  some  time  almost  useless,  was  now 
fast  expiring.  Resolved,  however,  to  make  the  most  of  its  last 
gleam,  I hastened,  with  rapid  step,  through  this  gloomy  region, 
which  appeared  to  be  wider  and  more  open  to  the  air  than  any  I 
had  yet  passed.  Nor  was  it  long  before  the  sudden  appearance  of 
a bright  blaze  in  the  distance  announced  to  me  that  my  first  great 
trial  was  at  hand.  As  I drew  nearer,  the  flames  before  me  burst 
high  and  wide  on  all  sides,  and  the  awful  spectacle  that  then  pre- 


Thomas  Moore. 


555 


sented  itself  was  such  as  might  have  daunted  hearts  far  more  ac- 
customed to  dangers  than  mine. 

There  lay  before  me,  extending  completely  across  my  path, 
a thicket  or  grove  of  the  most  combustible  trees  of  Egypt — tama- 
rind, pine,  and  Arabian  balm,  while  around  their  stems  and  branches 
were  coiled  serpents  of  lire,  which,  twisting  themselves  rapidly 
from  bough  to  bough,  spread  the  contagion  of  their  own  wild-fire 
as  they  went,  and  involved  tree  after  tree  in  one  general  blaze.  It 
was,  indeed,  rapid  as  the  burning  of  those  reed-beds  of  Ethiopia 
whose  light  is  often  seen  brightening  at  night  the  distant  cataracts 
of  the  Nile. 

Through  the  middle  of  this  blazing  grove  I could  now  perceive 
my  only  pathway  lay.  There  was  not  a moment,  therefore,  to  be  lost, 
for  the  conflagration  gained  rapidly  on  either  side,  and  already  the 
narrowing  path  between  was  strewed  with  vivid  fire.  Casting  away 
my  now  useless  lamp,  and  holding  my  robe  as  some  slight  protec- 
tion over  my  head,  I ventured,  with  trembling  limbs,  into  the  blaze. 

Instantly,  as  if  my  presence  had  given  new  life  to  the  flames,  a 
fresh  outbreak  of  combustion  arose  on  all  sides.  The  trees  clus- 
tered into  a bower  of  fire  above  my  head,  while  the  serpents  that 
hung  hissing  from  the  red  branches  shot  showers  of  sparkles  down 
upon  me  as  I passed.  Never  were  decision  and  activity  of  more 
avail ; one  minute  later  and  I must  have  perished.  The  narrow 
opening  of  which  I had  so  promptly  availed  myself  closed  instantly 
behind  me,  and,  as  I looked  back  to  contemplate  the  ordeal  which  I 
had  passed,  I saw  that  the  whole  grove  was  already  one  mass  of  fire. 

Rejoiced  to  have  escaped  this  first  trial,  I instantly  plucked  from 
one  of  the  pine-trees  a bough  that  was  but  just  kindled,  and,  with 
this  for  my  only  guide,  hastened  breathlessly  forward.  I had  ad- 
vanced but  a few  paces  when  the  path  turned  suddenly  off,  leading 
downwards,  as  I could  perceive  by  the  glimmer  of  my  brand,  into  a 
more  confined  region,  through  which  a chilling  air,  as  if  from  some 
neighboring  waters,  blew  over  my  brow.  Nor  had  I proceeded  far 
in  this  course  when  the  sound  of  torrents,  mixed,  as  I thought,  from 
time  to  time  with  shrill  wailings  resembling  the  cries  of  persons  in 
danger  or  distress,  fell  mournfully  upon  my  ear.  At  every  step  the 
noise  of  the  dashing  waters  increased,  and  I now  perceived  that  I 
had  entered  an  immense  rocky  cavern,  through  the  middle  of  wrhich, 
headlong  as  a winter  torrent,  the  dark  flood  to  wThose  roar  I had 
been  listening  poured  its  waters,  while  upon  its  surface  floated 


556  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

grim  spectre-like  shapes,  which,  as  they  went  by,  sent  forth  those 
dismal  shrieks  I had  heard,  as  if  in  fear  of  some  awful  precipice 
towards  whose  brink  they  were  hurrying. 

I saw  plainly  that  across  that  torrent  must  be  my  course.  It  was, 
indeed,  fearful ; but  in  courage  and  perseverance  now  lay  my  only 
hope.  What  awaited  me  on  the  opposite  shore  I knew  not;  for  all 
there  was  immersed  in  impenetrable  gloom,  nor  could  the  feeble 
light  which  I carried  send  its  glimmer  half  so  far.  Dismissing, 
however,  all  thoughts  but  that  of  pressing  onward,  I sprung  from 
the  rock  on  which  I stood  into  the  flood,  trusting  that  with  my 
right  hand  I should  be  able  to  buffet  the  current,  while  with  the 
other,  as  long  as  a gleam  of  the  brand  remained,  I might  hold  it 
aloft  to  guide  me  safely  to  the  shore. 

Long,  formidable,  and  almost  hopeless  was  the  struggle  I had 
now  to  maintain,  and  more  than  once,  overpowered  by  the  rush  of 
the  waters,  I had  given  myself  ujo  as  destined  to  follow  those  pale, 
death-like  apparitions  that  still  went  past  me,  hurrying  onward 
with  mournful  cries  to  find  their  doom  in  some  invisible  gulf  be- 
yond. 

At  length,  just  as  my  strength  was  nearly  exhausted  and  the  last 
remains  of  the  pine-branch  were  dropping  from  my  hand,  I saw, 
outstretching  towards  me  into  the  water,  a light  double-  balustrade, 
with  a flight  of  steps  between,  ascending  almost  perpendicularly 
from  the  wave  till  they  seemed  lost  in  a dense  mass  of  clouds  above. 
This  glimpse — for  it  was  nothing  more,  as  my  light  expired  in  giv- 
ing it — lent  new  spring  to  my  courage.  Having  now  both  hands  at 
liberty,  so  desperate  were  my  efforts  that,  after  a few  minutes’ 
struggle,  I felt  my  brow  strike  against  the  stairway,  and  in  an 
instant  my  feet  were  on  the  steps. 

Kejoiced  at  my  escape  from  that  perilous  flood,  though  I knew 
not  whither  the  stairway  led,  I promptly  ascended  the  steps. 
But  this  feeling  of  confidence  was  of  short  duration.  I had  not 
mounted  far,  when,  to  my  horror,  I perceived  that  each  successive 
step  as  my  foot  left  it  broke  away  from  beneath  me,  leaving  me  in 
mid-air  with  no  other  alternative  than  that  of  still  mounting  by  the 
same  momentary  footing,  and  with  the  appalling  doubt  whether  it 
would  even  endure  my  tread. 

And  thus  did  I for  a few  seconds  continue  to  ascend,  with  nothing 
beneath  me  but  that  awful  river,  in  which,  so  tranquil  had  it  now 
become,  I could  hear  the  plash  of  the  falling  fragments  as  every 


Thomas  Moore . 


557 


stop  in  succession  gave  way  from  under  my  feet.  It  was  a most 
fearful  moment,  but  even  still  worse  remained.  I now  found  the 
balustrade  by  which  I had  held  during  my  ascent,  and  which  had 
hitherto  appeared  to  be  firm,  growing  tremulous  in  my  hand,  while 
the  step  to  which  I was  about  to  trust  myself  tottered  under  my 
foot.  Just  then  a momentary  flash,  as  if  of  lightning,  broke  around 
me,  and  I saw  hanging  out  of  the  clouds,  so  as  to  be  barely  within 
my  reach,  a huge  brazen  ring.  Instinctively  I stretched  forth  my  arm 
to  seize  it,  and,  at  the  same  instant,  both  balustrade  and  steps  gave 
way  beneath  me,  and  I was  left  swinging  by  my  hands  in  the  dark 
void.  As  if,  too,  this  massy  ring  which  I grasped  was  by  some 
magic  power  linked  with  all  the  winds  in  heaven,  no  sooner  had  I 
seized  it  than,  like  the  touching  of  a spring,  it  seemed  to  give  loose 
to  every  variety  of  gusts  and  tempests  that  ever  strewed  the  sea- 
shore with  wrecks  or  dead,  and  as  I swung  about,  the  sport  of  this 
elemental  strife,  every  new  burst  of  its  fury  threatened  to  shiver  me 
like  a storm-sail  to  atoms. 

Nor  was  even  this  the  worst ; for,  still  holding,  I know  not  how, 
by  the  ring,  I felt  myself  caught  up  as  if  by  a thousand  whirlwinds, 
and  then  round  and  round,  like  a stone-shot  in  a sling,  continued 
to  be  whirled  in  the  midst  of  all  this  deafening  chaos  till  my  brain 
grew  dizzy,  my  recollection  became  confused,  and  I almost  fancied 
myself  on  that  wheel  of  the  infernal  world  whose  rotations  eternity 
alone  can  number. 

Human  strength  could  no  longer  sustain  such  a trial.  I was  on 
the  point,  at  last,  of  loosing  my  hold,  when  suddenly  the  violence 
of  the  storm  moderated,  my  whirl  through  the  air  gradually  ceased, 
and  I felt  the  ring ‘slowly  descend  with  ^me  till — happy  as  a ship- 
wrecked mariner  at  the  first  touch  of  land — I found  my  feet  once 
more  upon  firm  ground. 

At  the  same  moment  a light  of  the  most  delicious  softness  filled 
the  whole  air.  Music  such  as  is  heard  in  dreams  came  floating  at 
a distance,  and,  as  my  eyes  gradually  recovered  their  powers  of 
vision,  a scene  of  glory  was  revealed  to  them  almost  too  bright  for 
imagination,  and  yet  living  and  real.  As  far  as  the  sight  could  reach 
enchanting  gardens  were  seen,  opening  away  through  long  tracts  of 
light  and  verdure,  and  sparkling  everywhere  with  fountains  that  cir- 
culated like  streams  of  life  among  the  flowers.  Not  a charm  was 
here  wanting  that  the  fancy  of  poet  or  prophet,  in  their  warmest 
pictures  of  Elysium,  have  ever  yet  dreamed  or  promised.  Vistas, 


55$ 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


opening  into  scenes  of  indistinct  grandeur  ; streams,  shining  out  at 
intervals  in  their  shadowy  course ; and  labyrinths  of  flowers,  leading 
by  mysterious  windings  to  green,  spacious  glades  full  of  splen- 
dor and  repose.  Over  all  this,  too,  there  fell  a light  from  some  un- 
seen source  resembling  nothing  that  illumines  our  upper  world,  a 
sort  of  golden  moonlight  mingling  the  warm  radiance  of  day  with 
the  calm  and  melancholy  lustre  of  night. 

Nor  were  there  wanting  inhabitants  for  this  sunless  Paradise. 
Through  all  the  bright  gardens  were  seen  wandering,  with  the  se- 
rene- air  and  step  of  happy  spirits,  groups  both  of  young  and  old,  of 
venerable  and  of  lovely  forms,  bearing,  most  of  them,  the  Nile’s 
white  flowers  on  their  heads  and  branches  of  the  eternal  palm  in 
their  hands,  while  over  the  verdant  turf  fair  children  and  maidens 
went  dancing  to  aerial  music,  whose  source  was,  like  that  of  the 
light,  invisible,  but  which  filled  the  whole  air  with  its  mystic  sweet- 
ness. 

Exhausted  as  I was  by  the  painful  trials  I had  undergone,  no 
sooner  did  I perceive  those  fair  groups  in  the  distance  than  my 
weariness,  both  of  frame  and  spirit,  was  forgotten.  A thought 
crossed  me  that  she  whom  I sought  might  haply  be  among  them, 
and  notwithstanding  the  feeling  of  awe  with  which  that  unearthly 
scene  inspired  me,  I was  about  to  fly  on  the  instant  to  ascertain  my 
hope.  But  while  in  the  act  of  making  the  effort,  I felt  my  robe 
gently  pulled,  and  turning  round,  beheld  an  aged  man  before  me 
whom,  by  the  sacred  hue  of  his  garb,  I knew  at  once  to  be  a Hiero- 
phant. Placing  a branch  of  the  consecrated  palm  in  my  hand,  he 
said,  in  a solemn  voice,  “ Aspirant  of  the  Mysteries,  welcome  ! ” 
then,  regarding  me  for  a few  seconds  with  grave  attention,  added, 
in  a tone  of  courteousness  and  interest,  “ The  victory  over  the  body 
hath  been  gained.  Eollow  me,  young  Greek,  to  thy  resting-place.” 

I obeyed  the  command  in  silence,  and  the  priest,  turning  away 
from  this  scene  of  splendor  into  a secluded  pathway  where  the  light 
gradually  faded  as  we  advanced,  led  me  to  a small  pavilion  by  the 
side  of  a whispering  stream,  where  the  very  spirit  of  slumber  seemed 
to  preside,  and,  pointing  silently  to  a bed  of  dried  poppy-leaves,  left 
me  to  repose. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

On  awaking,  the  imprudence  of  the  step  on  which  I had  ventured 
appeared  in  its  full  extent  before  my  eyes.  I had  here  thrown  my- 


Thomas  Moore . 


559 


seif  into  the  power  of  the  most  artful  priesthood  in  the  world  with- 
out even  a chance  of  being  able  to  escape  from  their  toils,  or  to  resist 
any  machinations  with  which  they  might  beset  me.  It  appeared 
evident,  from  the  state  of  preparation  in  which  I had  found  all  that 
wonderful  apparatus  by  which  the  terrors  and  splendors  of  initia- 
tion are  produced,  that  my  descent  into  the  pyramid  was  not  unex- 
pected. Numerous  indeed  and  active  as  were  the  spies  of  the  Sacred 
College  of  Memphis,  it  could  little  be  doubted  that  all  my  move- 
ments since  my  arrival  had  been  watchfully  tracked,  and  the  many 
hours  I had  employed  in  wandering  and  exploring  around  the 
pyramid  betrayed  a curiosity  and  spirit  of  adventure  which  might 
well  suggest  to  these  wily  priests  the  hope  of  inveigling  an  Epicu- 
rean into  their  toils. 

I was  well  aware  of  their  hatred  to  the  sect  of  which  I was  chief 
— that  they  considered  the  Epicureans  as,  next  to  the  Christians, 
the  most  formidable  enemies  of  their  craft  and  power.  “ How 
thoughtless,  then/’  I exclaimed,  “ to  have  placed  myself  in  a situa- 
tion where  I am  equally  helpless  against  fraud  and  violence,  and 
must  either  pretend  to  be  the  dupe  of  their  impostures  or  else  sub- 
mit to  become  the  victim  of  their  vengeance  ! ” Of  these  alterna- 
tives, bitter  as  they  both  were,  the  latter  appeared  by  far  the  more 
welcome.  It  was  with  a blush  that  I even  looked  back  upon  the 
mockeries  I had  already  yielded  to,  and  the  prospect  of  being 
put  through  still  further  ceremonials,  and  of  being  tutored  and 
preached  to  by  hypocrites  whom  I so  much  despised,  appeared  to 
me,  in  my  present  mood  of  mind,  a trial  of  patience  compared  to 
which  the  flames  and  whirlwinds  I had  already  encountered  were 
pastime. 

The  thought  of  death,  ever  ready  to  present  itself  to  my  ima- 
gination, now  came  with  a disheartening  weight,  such  as  I had 
never  before  felt.  I almost  fancied  myself  already  in  the  dark 
vestibule  of  the  grave,  removed  for  ever  from  the  world  above, 
and  with  nothing  but  the  blank  of  an  eternal  sleep  before  me.  It  had 
happened,  I knew,  frequently  that  the  visitants  of  this  mysterious 
realm  were,  after  their  descent  from  earth,  never  seen  or  heard 
of,  being  condemned,  for  some  failure  in  their  initiatory  trials,  to 
pine  away  their  lives  in  those  dark  dungeons  with  which,  as  well 
as  with  altars,  this  region  abounded.  Such,  I shuddered  to  think, 
might  probably  be  my  own  destiny,  and  so  appalling  was  the 
thought  that  even  the  courage  by  which  I had  been  hitherto  sus- 


5 So 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


tained  died  within  me,  and  I was  already  giving  myself  up  to  help- 
lessness and  despair. 

While  with  an  imagination  thus  excited,  and  I stood  waiting  the 
result,  an  increased  gush  of  light  awakened  my  attention,  and  I 
saw,  with  an  intenseness  of  interest  which  made  my  heart  beat 
aloud,  one  of  the  corners  of  the  mighty  Veil  of  the  Sanctuary  raised 
slowly  from  the  floor.  I now  felt  that  the  great  secret,  whatever  it 
might  be,  was  at  hand.  A vague  hope  even  crossed  my  mind — so 
wholly  had  imagination  now  resumed  her  empire — that  the  splendid 
promise  of  a dream  I once  had  was  on  the  very  point  of  being 
realized  ! 

With  surprise,  however,  and,  for  the  moment,  with  some  disap- 
pointment, I perceived  that  the  massy  corner  of  the  veil  was  but 
lifted  sufficiently  from  the  ground  to  allow  a female  figure  to  emerge 
from  under  it,  and  then  fell  over  its  mystic  splendors  as  utterly 
dark  as  before.  By  the  strong  light,  too,  that  issued  when  the  dra- 
pery was  raised,  and  illuminated  the  profile  of  the  emerging  figure, 
I either  saw,  or  fancied  that  I saw,  the  same  bright  features  that 
had  already  so  often  mocked  me  with  their  momentary  charm,  and 
seemed  destined,  indeed,  to  haunt  my  fancy  as  unavailing  as  even 
the  fond,  vain  dream  of  immortality  itself. 

Dazzled  as  I had  been  by  that  short  gush  of  splendor,  and  dis- 
trusting even  my  senses  when  under  the  influence  of  so  much  excite- 
ment, I had  but  just  begun  to  question  myself  as  to  the  reality  of 
my  impression  when  I heard  the  sounds  of  light  footsteps  approach- 
ing me  through  the  gloom.  In  a second  or  two  more  the  figure 
stopped  before  me,  and,  placing  the  end  of  a ribbon  gently  in  my 
hand,  said,  in  a tremulous  whisper,  “Follow,  and  be  silent.” 

So  sudden  aud  strange  was  the  adventure  that  for  a moment  I 
hesitated,  fearing  that  my  eyes  might  possibly  have  been  deceived 
as  to  the  object  they  had  seen.  Casting  a look  towards  the  veil, 
which  seemed  bursting  with  its  luminous  secret,  I was  almost 
doubting  to  which  of  the  two  chances  I should  commit  myself, 
when  I felt  the  ribbon  in  my  hand  pulled  softly  at  the  other  ex- 
tremity. This  movement,  like  a touch  of  magic,  at  once  decided 
me.  Without  any  further  deliberation,  I yielded  to  the  silent  sum- 
mons, and  following  my  guide,  who  was  already  at  some  distance 
before  me,  found  myself  led  up  the  same  flight  of  marble  steps  by 
which  the  priest  had  conducted  me  into  the  sanctuary.  Arrived  at 
their  summit,,  I felt  the  pace  of  my  conductress  quicken,  and,  giv- 


Thomas  Moore . 


56i 

ing  one  more  look  to  the  veiled  shrine,  whose  glories  we  left  burning 
uselessly  behind  us,  hastened  onward  into  the  gloom,  full  of  confi- 
dence in  the  belief  that  she  who  now  held  the  other  end  of  that  clue 
was  one  whom  I was  ready  to  follow  devotedly  through  the  world. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

With  such  rapidity  was  I hurried  along  by  my  unseen  guide,  full 
of  wonder  at  the  speed  with  which  she  ventured  through  these  laby- 
rinths, that  I had  but  little  time  left  for  reflection  upon  the  strange- 
ness of  the  adventure  to  which  I had  committed  myself.  My  know- 
ledge of  the  character  of  the  Memphian  priests,  as  well  as  some 
fearful  rumors  that  had  reached  me  concerning  the  fate  that  often 
attended  unbelievers  in  their  hands,  awakened  a momentary  suspi- 
cion of  treachery  in  my  mind.  But  when  I recalled  the  face  of  my 
guide  as  I had  seen  it  in  the  small  chapel,  with  that  divine  look,  the 
very  memory  of  which  brought  purity  into  the  heart,  I found  my 
suspicions  all  vanish,  and  felt  shame  at  having  harbored  them  but 
an  instant. 

In  the  meanwhile  our  rapid  course  continued,  without  any  inter- 
ruption, through  windings  even  more  capriciously  intricate28  than 
any  I had  yet  passed,  and  whose  thick  gloom  seemed  never  to  have 
been  broken  by  a single  glimmer  of  light.  My  unseen  conduct- 
ress was  still  at  some  distance  before  me,  and  the  slight  clue,  to 
which  I clung  as  if  it  were  Destiny’s  own  thread,  was  still  kept  by 
the  speed  of  her  course  at  full  stretch  between  us.  At  length,  sud- 
denly stopping,  she  said,  in  a breathless  whisper,  “ Seat  thyself 
here,”  and  at  the  same  moment  led  me  by  the  hand  to  a sort  of  low 
car,  in  which,  obeying  her  brief  command,  I lost  not  a moment  in 
placing  myself,  while  the  maiden  no  less  promptly  took  her  seat  by 
my  side. 

A sudden  click,  like  the  touching  of  a spring,  was  then  heard,  and 
the  car — which,  as  I had  felt  in  entering  it,  leaned  half-way  over  a 
steep  descent — on  being  let  loose  from  its  station,  shot  down  almost 
perpendicularly  into  the  darkness  with  a rapidity  which  at  first 
nearly  deprived  me  of  breath.  The  wheels  slid  smoothly  and  noise- 

28  In  addition  to  the  accounts  which  the  ancients  have  left  us  of  the  prodigious  exca. 
vations  in  all  parts  of  Egypt,  the  fifteen  hundred  chambers  under  the  Labyrinth,  the 
subterranean  stables  of  the  Thebaiid,  containing  a thousand  horses,  the  crypts  of  Upper 
Egypt  passing  under  the  bed  of  the  Nile,  etc.,  etc.,  the  stories  and  traditions  current 
among  the  Arabs  still  preserve  the  memory  of  those  wonderful  substructions. 


562 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


lessly  in  grooves,  and  the  impetus  which  the  car  acquired  in  de- 
scending was  sufficient,  I perceived,  to  carry  it  up  an  eminence  that 
succeeded,  from  the  summit  of  which  it  again  rushed  down  another 
declivity  even  still  more  long  and  precipitous  than  the  former.  In 
this  manner  we  proceeded,  by  alternate  falls  and  rises,  till  at  length 
from  the  last  and  steepest  elevation  the  car  descended  upon  a level 
of  deep  sand,  where,  after  running  a few  yards,  it  by  degrees  lost 
its  motion  and  stopped. 

Here  the  maiden,  alighting  again,  placed  the  ribbon  in  my  hands, 
and  again  I followed  her,  though  with  more  slowness  and  difficulty 
than  before,  as  our  way  now  led  up  a flight  of  damp  and  time-worn 
steps,  whose  ascent  seemed  to  the  wearied  and  insecure  foot  intermin- 
able. Perceiving  with  what  languor  my  guide  advanced,  I was  on 
the  point  of  making  an  effort  to  assist  her  progress  when  the  creak 
of  an  opening  door  above,  and  a faint  gleam  of  light  which  at  the 
same  moment  shone  upon  her  figure,  apprised  me  that  we  were  at 
last  arrived  within  reach  of  sunshine. 

Joyfully  I followed  through  this  opening,  and  by  the  dim  light 
could  discern  that  we  were  now  in  the  sanctuary  of  a vast  ruined 
temple,  having  entered  by  a secret  passage  under  the  pedestal  upon 
which  an  image  of  the  idol  of  the  place  once  stood.  The  first 
movement  of  the  young  maiden,  after  closing  again  the  portal  under 
the  pedestal,  was,  without  even  a single  look  towards  me,  to  cast  her- 
self down  upon  her  knees  with  her  hands  clasped  and  uplifted,  as  if 
in  thanksgiving  or  prayer.  But  she  was  unable,  evidently,  to  sustain 
herself  in  this  position ; her  strength  could  hold  out  no  longer. 
Overcome  by  agitation  and  fatigue,  she  sunk  senseless  upon  the 
pavement. 

Bewildered  as  I was  myself  by  the  strange  events  of  the  night,  I 
stood  for  some  minutes  looking  upon  her  in  a state  of  helplessness  and 
alarm.  But  reminded  by  my  own  feverish  sensations  of  the  reviving 
effects  of  the  air,  I raised  her  gently  in  my  arms,  and,  crossing  the 
corridor  that  surrounded  the  sanctuary,  found  my  way  to  the  outer 
vestibule  of  the  temple.  Here,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  sun,  I 
placed  her  reclining  upon  the  steps,  where  the  cool  north  wind, 
then  blowing  freshly  between  the  pillars,  might  play  with  free 
draught  over  her  brow. 

It  was,  indeed,  as  I now  saw  with  certainty,  the  same  beautiful 
and  mysterious  girl  who  had  been  the  cause  of  my  descent  into  that 
subterranean  world,  and  who  now,  under  such  strange  and  unac- 


Thomas  Moore. 


563 


countable  circumstances,  was  my  guide  back  again  to  the  realms  of 
day.  I looked  around  to  discover  where  we  were,  and  beheld  such 
a scene  of  grandeur  as,  could  my  eyes  have  been  then  attracted  to 
any  object  but  the  pale  form  reclining  at  my  side,  might  well  have 
induced  them  to  dwell  on  its  splendid  beauties. 

I was  now  standing,  I found,  on  the  small  island  in  the  centre  of 
Lake  Mceris,  and  that  sanctuary,  where  we  had  just  emerged  from 
darkness,  formed  part  of  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  temple  which  was 
(as  I have  since  learned),  in  the  grander  days  of  Memphis,  a place 
of  pilgrimage  for  worshippers  from  all  parts  of  Egypt.  The  fair 
lake  itself,  out  of  whose  waters  once  rose  pavilions,  palaces,  and 
even  lofty  pyramids,  was  still,  though  divested  of  many  of  these 
wonders,  a scene  of  interest  and  splendor  such  as  the  whole  world 
could  not  equal.  While  the  shores  still  sparkled  with  mansions  and 
temples  that  bore  testimony  to  the  luxury  of  a living  race,  the  voice 
of  the  past,  speaking  out  of  unnumbered  ruins,  whose  summits 
here  and  there  rose  blackly  above  the  wave,  told  of  times  long  fled 
and  generations  long  swept  away,  before  whose  giant  remains  all 
the  glory  of  the  present  stood  humbled.  Over  the  southern  bank 
of  the  lake  hung  the  dark  relics  of  the  Labyrinth  ; its  twelve  royal 
palaces,  representing  the  mansions  of  the  Zodiac,  its  thundering 
portals  and  constellated  halls,  having  left  nothing  now  behind  but 
a few  frowning  ruins,  which,  contrasted  with  the  soft  groves  of 
acacia  and  olive  around  them,  seemed  to  rebuke  the  luxuriant  smiles 
of  nature  and  threw  a melancholy  grandeur  over  the  whole  scene. 

The  effects  of  the  air  in  reanimating  the  young  priestess  were 
less  speedy  than  I had  expected ; her  eyes  were  still  closed,  and  she 
remained  pale  and  insensible.  Alarmed,  I now  rested  her  head 
(which  had  been  for  some  time  supported  by  my  arm)  against  the 
base  of  one  of  the  columns,  with  my  cloak  for  its  pillow,  while  I 
hastened  to  procure  some  water  from  the  lake.  The  temple  stood 
high,  and  the  descent  to  the  shore  was  precipitous ; but  my  Epicu- 
rean habits  having  but  little  impaired  my  activity,  I soon  descended 
with  the  lightness  of  a desert  deer  to  the  bottom.  Here,  plucking 
from  a lofty  bean-tree,  whose  flowers  stood  shining  like  gold  above 
the  water,  one  of  those  large  hollowed  leaves  that  serve  as  cups  for 
the  Hebes  of  the  Hile,  I filled  it  from  the  lake  and  hurried  back 
with  the  cool  draught  towards  the  temple.  It  was  not,  however, 
without  some  difficulty  that  I at  last  succeeded  in  bearing  my  rustic 
chalice  steadily  up  the  steep ; more  than  once  did  an  unlucky 


564  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

slip  waste  all  its  contents,  and  as  often  did  I return  impatiently  to 
refill  it. 

During  this  time  the  young  maiden  was  fast  recovering  her  anima- 
tion and  consciousness,  and  at  the  moment  when  I appeared  above 
the  edge  of  the  steep  was  just  rising  from  the  steps  with  her  hand 
pressed  to  her  forehead,  as  if  confusedly  recalling  the  recollection 
of  what  had  occurred.  No  sooner  did  she  observe  me  than  a short 
cry  of  alarm  broke  from  her  lips.  Looking  anxiously  around,  as 
though  she  sought  for  protection,  and  half-audibly  uttering  the 
words,  “ Where  is  he  ? ” she  made  an  effort,  as  I approached,  to  re- 
treat into  the  temple. 

Already,  however,  I was  by  her  side,  and  taking  her  hand,  as 
she  turned  away  from  me,  gently  in  mine,  asked:  “Whom  dost 
thou  seek,  fair  priestess  ? ” thus,  for  the  first  time  breaking  the 
silence  she  had  enjoined,  and  in  a tone  that  might  have  reassured  the 
most  timid  spirit.  But  my  words  had  no  effect  in  calming  her  ap- 
prehension. Trembling,  and  with  her  eyes  still  averted  towards  the 
temple,  she  continued  in  a voice  of  suppressed  alarm  : “ Where  cctn 
he  be  ? that  venerable  Athenian,  that  philosopher,  who — ” 

“Here,  here!”  I exclaimed,  anxiously  interrupting  her  ; “behold 
him  still  by  thy  side — the  same,  the  very  same  who  saw  thee  steal 
from  under  the  Veils  of  the  Sanctuary,  whom  thou  hast  guided  by  a 
clue  through  those  labyrinths  below,  and  who  now  only  waits  his 
command  from  those  lips  to  devote  himself  through  life  and  death 
to  thy  service.”  As  I spoke  these  words  she  turned  slowly  round, 
and,  looking  timidly  in  my  face  while  her  own  burned  with  blushes, 
said,  in  a tone  of  doubt  and  wonder,  “Thou  !”  and  then  hid  her 
eyes  in  her  hands. 

I knew  not  how  to  interpret  a reception  so  unexpected.  That 
some  mistake  or  disappointment  had  occurred  was  evident ; but  so 
inexplicable  did  the  whole  adventure  appear  to  me  that  it  was  in 
vain  to  think  of  unravelling  any  part  of  it.  Weak  and  agitated, 
she  now  tottered  to  the  steps  of  the  temple,  and  there  seating  her- 
self, with  her  forehead  against  the  cold  marble,  seemed  for  some 
moments  absorbed  in  the  most  anxious  thought,  while,  silent  and 
watchful,  I awaited  her  decision,  though,  at  the  same  time,  with  a 
feeling  which  the  result  proved  to  be  prophetic — that  my  destiny 
was  from  thenceforth  linked  inseparably  with  hers. 

The  inward  struggle  by  which  she  was  agitated,  though  violent, 
was  not  of  long  continuance.  Starting  suddenly  from  her  seat,  with 


Thomas  Moore. 


565 


a look  of  terror  towards  the  temple,  as  if  the  fear  of  immediate 
pursuit  had  alone  decided  her,  she  pointed  eagerly  towards  the  east, 
and  exclaimed,  ei  To  the  Nile,  without  delay  !”  clasping  her  hands 
after  she  had  thus  spoken  with  the  most  suppliant  fervor,  as  if  to 
soften  the  abruptness  of  the  mandate  she  had  given,  and  appealing 
to  me  at  the  same  time  with  a look  that  would  ha\  e taught  stoics 
themselves  tenderness. 

I lost  not  a moment  in  obeying  the  welcome  command.  With  a 
thousand  wild  hopes  naturally  crowding  upon  my  fancy  at  the 
thoughts  of  a voyage  under  such  auspices,  I descended  rapidly  to 
the  shore,  and,  hailing  one  of  those  boats  that  ply  upon  the  lake  for 
hire,  arranged  speedily  for  a passage  down  the  canal  to  the  Nile. 
Having  learned,  too,  from  the  boatmen  a more  easy  path  up  the 
rock,  I hastened  back  to  the  temple  for  my  fair  charge,  and,  with- 
out a word  or  look  that  could  alarm  even  by  its  kindness,  or  disturb 
the  innocent  confidence  which  she  now  evidently  reposed  in  me,  led 
her  down  by  the  winding  path  to  the  boat. 

Everything  around  looked  sunny  and  smiling  as  we  embarked. 
The  morning  was  in  its  first  freshness,  and  the  path  of  the  breeze 
might  clearly  be  traced  over  the  lake  as  it  went  wakening  up  the 
waters  from  their  sleep  of  the  night.  The  gay,  golden -winged  birds 
that  haunt  these  shores  were  in  every  direction  skimming  along 
the  lake,  while,  with  a graver  consciousness  of  beauty,  the  swan 
and  the  pelican  were  seen  dressing  their  white  plumage  in  the 
mirror  of  its  wave.  To  add  to  the  liveliness  of  the  scene,  there 
came  at  intervals  on  the  breeze  a sweet  tinkling  of  musical  instru- 
ments from  boats  at  a distance,  employed  thus  early  in  pursuing  the 
fish  of  these  waters,  that  allow  themselves  to  be  decoyed  into  the 
nets  by  music. 

The  vessel  I had  selected  for  our  voyage  was  one  of  those  small 
pleasure-boats  or  yachts  so  much  in  use  among  the  luxurious  navi- 
gators of  the  Nile,  in  the  centre  of  which  rises  a pavilion  of  cedar 
or  cypress  wood,  adorned  richly  on  the  outside  with  religious  em- 
blems, and  gaily  fitted  up  within  for  feasting  and  repose.  To  the 
door  of  this  pavilion  I now  led  my  companion,  and,  after  a few 
words  of  kindness,  tempered  cautiously  with  as  much  reserve  as  the 
deep  tenderness  of  my  feeling  towards  her  would  admit,  left  her  to 
court  that  restoring  rest  which  the  agitation  of  her  spirits  so  much 
required. 

Eor  myself,  though  repose  was  hardly  less  necessary  to  me,  the 


566 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


state  of  ferment  in  which  I had  been  so  long  kept  appeared  to 
render  it  hopeless.  Having  thrown  myself  on  the  deck  of  the 
vessel,  under  an  awning  which  the  sailors  had  raised  for  me,  I 
continued  for  some  hours  in  a sort  of  vague  day-dream,  sometimes 
passing  in  review  the  scenes  of  that  subterranean  drama  and  some- 
times, with  my  eyes  fixed  on  drowsy  vacancy,  receiving  passively 
the  impressions  of  the  bright  scenery  through  which  we  passed. 

The  banks  of  the  canal  were  then  luxuriantly  wooded.  Under 
the  tufts  of  the  light  and  towering  palm  were  seen  the  orange  and 
the  citron  interlacing  their  boughs,  while  here  and  there  huge  tama- 
risks thickened  the  shade,  and,  at  the  very  edge  of  the  bank,  the 
willow  of  Babylon  stood  bending  its  graceful  branches  into  the 
water.  Occasionally  out  of  the  depth  of  these  groves  there  shone 
a small  temple  or  pleasure-house,  while  now  and  then  an  opening 
in  their  line  of  foliage  allowed  the  eye  to  wander  over  extensive 
fields  all  covered  with  beds  of  those  pale,  sweet  roses  for  which  this 
district  of  Egypt  is  so  celebrated. 

The  activity  of  the  morning  hour  was  visible  in  every  direction. 
Plights  of  doves  and  lapwings  were  fluttering  among  the  leaves,  and 
the  white  heron,  which  had  been  roosting  all  night  in  some  date- 
tree,  now  stood  sunning  its  wings  upon  the  green  bank,  or  floated, 
like  living  silver,  over  the  flood.  The  flowers,  too,  both  of  land  and 
water,  looked  all  just  freshly  awakened,  and,  most  of  all,  the  superb 
lotus,  which,  having  risen  along  with  the  sun  from  the  wave,  was 
now  holding  up  her  chalice  for  a full  draught  of  his  light. 

Such  were  the  scenes  that  now  successively  presented  themselves 
and  mingled  with  the  vague  reveries  that  floated  through  my  mind 
as  our  boat,  with  its  high,  capacious  sail,  swept  along  the  flood. 
Though  the  occurrences  of  the  last  few  days  could  not  but  appear 
to  me  one  continued  series  of  wonders,  yet  by  far  the  greatest 
marvel  of  all  was  that  she  whose  first  look  had  sent  wildfire  into 
my  heart,  whom  I had  thought  of  ever  since  with  a restlessness  of 
passion  that  would  have  dared  all  danger  and  wrong  to  obtain  its 
object — she  was  now  at  this  moment  resting  sacredly  within  that 
pavilion,  while  guarding  her,  even  from  myself,  I lay  motionless  at 
its  threshold. 

Meanwhile,  the  sun  had  reached  his  meridian  height.  The  busy 
hum  of  the  morning  had  died  gradually  away,  and  all  around  was 
sleeping  in  the  hot  stillness  of  noon.  The  Nile  goose,  having  folded 
up  her  splendid  wings,  was  lying  motionless  on  the  shadow  of  the 


Thomas  Moore. 


567 


sycamores  in  the  water.  Even  the  nimble  lizards  upon  the  bank 
appeared  to  move  less  nimbly  as  the  light  fell  on  their  gold  and 
azure  hues.  Overcome  as  I was  with  watching,  and  weary  with 
thought,  it  was  not  long  before  I yielded  to  the  becalming  influence 
of  the  hour.  Looking  fixedly  at  the  pavilion,  as  if  once  more  to  as- 
sure myself  that  I was  in  no  dream  or  trance,  but  that  the  young 
Egyptian  was  really  there,  I felt  my  eyes  close  as  I gazed,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  sunk  into  a profound  sleep. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

It  was  by  the  canal  through  which  we  now  sailed  that  in  the 
more  prosperous  days  of  Memphis  the  commerce  of  Upper  Egypt 
and  Nubia  was  transported  to  her  magnificent  lake,  and  from 
thence,  having  paid  tribute  to  the  queen  of  cities,  was  poured  forth 
again  through  the  Nile  into  the  ocean.  The  course  of  this  canal  to 
the  river  was  not  direct,  but  ascending  in  a southeasterly  direction 
towards  the  Said ; and  in  calms,  or  with  adverse  winds,  the  passage 
was  tedious.  But,  as  the  breeze  was  now  blowing  freshly  from  the 
north,  there  was  every  prospect  of  reaching  the  river  before  nightfall. 
Rapidly,  too,  as  our  galley  swept  along  the  flood,  its  motion  was 
so  smooth  as  to  be  hardly  felt,  and  the  quiet  gurgle  of  the  waters  and 
the  drowsy  song  of  the  boatman  at  the  prow  were  the  only  sounds 
that  disturbed  the  deep  silence  which  prevailed. 

The  sun,  indeed,  had  nearly  sunk  behind  the  Lybian  hills  before 
the  sleep  into  which  these  sounds  had  contributed  to  lull  me  was 
broken,  and  the  first  object  on  which  my  eyes  rested  in  waking 
was  that  fair  young  priestess,  seated  within  a porch  which  shaded 
the  door  of  the  pavilion,  and  bending  intently  over  a small  volume 
that  lay  unrolled  on  her  lap. 

Her  face  was  but  half  turned  towards  me,  and  as  she  once  or  twice 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  warm  sky,  whose  light  fell,  softened  through 
the  trellis,  over  her  cheek,  I found  all  those  feelings  of  reverence 
which  she  had  inspired  me  with  in  the  chapel  return.  There  was 
even  a purer  and  holier  charm  around  her  countenance  thus  seen  by 
the  natural  light  of  day  than  in  those  dim  and  unhallowed  regions 
below.  She  was  now  looking,  too,  direct  to  the  glorious  sky,  and 
her  pure  eyes  and  that  heaven,  so  worthy  of  each  other,  met. 

After  contemplating  her  for  a few  moments  with  little  less  than 
adoration,  I rose  gently  from,  my  resting-place  and  approached  the 


563 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


pavilion.  But  the  mere  movement  had  startled  her  from  her  devo- 
tion, and,  blushing  and  confused,  she  covered  the  volume  with  the 
folds  of  her  robe. 

In  the  art  of  winning  upon  female  confidence  I had  long,  of 
course,  been  schooled,  and  now  that  to  the  lessons  of  gallantry  the 
inspiration  of  love  was  added,  my  ambition  to  please  and  to  interest 
could  hardly  fail,  it  may  be  supposed,  of  success.  I soon  found, 
however,  how  much  less  fluent  is  the  heart  than  the  fancy,  and  how 
very  different  may  be  the  operations  of  making  love  and  feeling  it. 
In  the  few  words  of  greeting  now  exchanged  between  us  it  was  evident 
that  the  gay,  the  enterprising  Epicurean  was  little  less  embarrassed 
than  the  secluded  priestess,  and  after  one  or  two  ineffectual  efforts 
to  converse,  the  eyes  of  both  turned  bashfully  away,  and  we  relapsed 
into  silence. 

From  this  situation,  the  result  of  timidity  on  one  side  and  of  a 
feeling  altogether  new  on  the  other,  we  were  at  length  relieved, 
after  an  interval  of  estrangement,  by  the  boatmen  announcing  that 
the  Nile  was  in  sight.  The  countenance  of  the  young  Egyptian 
brightened  at  this  intelligence,  and  the  smile  with  which  I con- 
gratulated her  upon  the  speed  of  our  voyage  was  responded  to  by 
another  from  her  so  full  of  gratitude  that  already  an  instinctive 
sympathy  seemed  established  between  us. 

We  were  now  on  the  point  of  entering  that  sacred  river  of  whose 
sweet  waters  the  exile  drinks  in  his  dreams,  for  a draught  of  whose 
flood  the  royal  daughters  of  the  Ptolemies,  when  far  away  on  foreign 
thrones,  have  been  known  to  sigh  in  the  midst  of  their  splendor. 
As  our  boat,  with  slackened  sail,  was  gliding  into  the  current,  an 
enquiry  from  the  boatmen  whether  they  should  anchor  for  the  night 
in  the  Nile  first  reminded  me  of  the  ignorance  in  which  I still  re- 
mained with  respect  to  the  motive  or  destination  of  our  voyage. 
Embarrassed  by  their  question,  I directed  my  eyes  towards  the 
priestess,  whom  I saw  waiting  for  my  answer  with  a look  of  anxiety, 
which  this  silent  reference  to  her  wishes  at  once  dispelled.  Un- 
folding eagerly  the  volume  with  which  I had  seen  her  so  much 
occupied,  she  took  from  between  its  folds  a small  leaf  of  papyrus,  on 
which  there  appeared  to  be  some  faint  lines  of  drawing,  and,  after 
looking  upon  it  thoughtfully  for  a few  moments,  placed  it  with  an 
agitated  hand  in  mine. 

In  the  meantime  the  boatmen  had  taken  in  their  sail,  and  the 
yacht  drove  slowly  down  the  river  with  the  current,  while  by  alight 


Thomas  Moore. 


569 


which  had  been  kindled  at  sunset  on  the  deck  I stood  examining  the 
leaf  that  the  priestess  had  given  me,  her  dark  eyes  fixed  anxiously 
on  my  countenance  all  the  while.  The  lines  traced  upon  the  papy- 
rus were  so  faint  as  to  be  almost  invisible,  and  I was  for  some  time 
wholly  unable  to  form  a conjecture  as  to  their  import.  At  length, 
however,  I succeeded  in  making  out  that  they  were  a sort  of  map  or 
outlines,  traced  slightly  and  unsteadily  with  a Memphian  reed,  of  a 
part  of  that  mountainous  ridge  by  which  Upper  Egypt  is  bounded 
to  the  east,  together  with  the  names,  or  rather  emblems,  of  the 
chief  towns  in  its  immediate  neighborhood. 

It  was  thither,  I now  saw  clearly,  that  the  young  priestess  wished 
to  pursue  her  course.  Without  further  delay,  therefore,  I ordered 
the  boatmen  to  set  our  yacht  before  the  wind,  and  ascend  the  cur- 
rent. My  command  was  promptly  obeyed ; the  white  sail  again 
rose  into  the  region  of  the  breeze,  and  the  satisfaction  that  beamed 
in  every  feature  of  the  fair  Egyptian  showed  that  the  quickness  with 
which  I had  attended  to  her  wishes  was  not  unfelt  by  her.  The 
moon  had  now  risen,  and,  though  the  current  was  against  us,  the 
Etesian  wind  of  the  season  blew  strongly  up  the  river,  and  we  were 
soon  floating  before  it  through  the  rich  plains  and  groves  of  the  Said. 

The  love  with  which  this  simple  girl  had  inspired  me  was  partly, 
perhaps,  from  the  mystic  scenes  and  situations  in  which  I had  seen 
her,  not  unmingled  with  a tinge  of  superstitious  awe,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  which  I felt  the  natural  buoyancy  of  my  spirit  repressed. 
The  few  words  that  had  passed  between  us  on  the  subject  of  our 
route  had  somewhat  loosened  this  spell,  and  what  I wanted  of 
vivacity  and  confidence  was  more  than  compensated  by  the  tone  of 
deep  sensibility  which  love  had  awakened  in  their  place. 

We  had  not  proceeded  far  before  the  glittering  of  lights  at  a dis- 
tance and  the  shooting  up  of  fireworks  at  intervals  into  the  air  ap- 
prized us  that  we  were  then  approaching  one  of  those  night-fairs  or 
marts  which  it  is  the  custom  at  this  season  to  hold  upon  the  Nile. 
To  me  the  scene  was  familiar,  but  to  my  young  companion  it  was 
evidently  a new  world,  and  the  mixture  of  alarm  and  delight  with 
which  she  gazed  from  under  her  veil  upon  the  busy  scene  into  which 
we  now  sailed  gave  an  air  of  innocence  to  her  beauty  which  still 
more  heightened  its  every  charm. 

It  was  one  of  the  widest  parts  of  the  river,  and  the  whole  surface 
from  one  bank  to  the  other  was  covered  with  boats.  Along  the 
banks  of  a green  island  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  lay  anchored 


570 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


the  galleys  of  the  principal  traders — large  floating  bazaars,  bearing 
each  the  name  of  its  owner  emblazoned  in  letters  of  flame  upon  the 
stern.  Over  their  decks  were  spread  out  in  gay  confusion  the  pro- 
ducts of  the  loom  and  needle  of  Egypt — rich  carpets  of  Memphis 
and  likewise  those  variegated  veils  for  which  the  female  embroider- 
ers of  the  Nile  are  so  celebrated,  and  to  which  the  name  of  Cleo- 
patra lends  a traditional  charm.  In  each  of  the  other  galleys  was 
exhibited  some  branch  of  Egyptian  workmanship — vases  of  the  fra- 
grant porcelain  of  On,  cups  of  that  frail  crystal  whose  hues  change 
like  those  of  the  pigeon’s  plumage,  enamelled  amulets  graven  with 
the  head  of  Anubis,  and  necklaces  and  bracelets  of  the  black  beans 
of  Abyssinia. 

While  commei’ce  was  thus  displaying  her  various  luxuries  in  one 
quarter,  in  every  other  the  spirit  of  pleasure,  in  all  its  countless 
shapes,  swarmed  over  the  waters.  Nor  was  the  festivity  confined  to 
the  river  alone,  as  along  the  banks  of  the  island  and  on  the  shores 
illuminated  mansions  were  seen  glittering  through  the  trees,  from 
whence  sounds  of  music  and  merriment  came.  In  some  of  the 
boats  were  bands  of  minstrels,  who,  from  time  to  time,  answered 
each  other,  like  echoes,  across  the  wave, and  the  notes  of  the  lyre, 
the  flageolet,  and  the  sweet  lotus- wood  flute  were  heard,  in  the  pauses 
of  revelry,  dying  along  the  waters. 

Meanwhile,  from  other  boats  stationed  in  the  least  lighted  places, 
the  workers  of  fire  sent  forth  their  wonders  into  the  air.  Bursting 
out  suddenly  from  time  to  time,  as  if  in  the  very  exuberance  of  joy, 
these  sallies  of  flame  appeared  to  reach  the  sky,  and  there,  breaking 
into  a shower  of  sparkles,  shed  such  a splendor  around  as  bright- 
ened even  the  white  Arabian  hills,  making  them  shine  as  doth 
the  brow  of  Mount  Atlas  at  night  when  the  fire  from  his  own  bosom 
is  playing  around  its  snows. 

The  opportunity  this  mart  afforded  us  of  providing  ourselves 
with  some  less  remarkable  habiliments  than  those  in  which  we  had 
escaped  from  that  nether  world  was  too  seasonable  not  to  be  gladly 
taken  advantage  of  by  both.  Eor  myself,  this  strange  mystic  garb 
which  I wore  was  sufficiently  concealed  by  my  Grecian  mantle, 
which  I had  fortunately  thrown  round  me  on  the  night  of  my  watch. 
But  the  thin  veil  of  my  companion  was  a far  less  efficient  disguise. 
She  had,  indeed,  flung  away  the  golden  beetles  from  her  hair,  but 
the  sacred  robe  of  her  order  was  still  too  visible,  and  the  stars  of  the 
bandelet  shone  brightly  through  her  veil. 


Thomas  Moore. 


57 1 


Most  gladly,  therefore,  did  she  avail  herself  of  this  opportunity 
of  a change,  and  as  she  took  from  out  a casket — which,  with  the 
volume  I had  seen  her  reading,  appeared  to  be  her  only  treasure — a 
small  jewrel  to  give  in  exchange  for  the  simple  garments  she  had 
chosen,  there  fell  out  at  the  same  time  the  very  cross  of  silver  which 
I had  seen  her  kiss,  as  may  be  remembered,  in  the  monumental 
chapel,  and  which  was  afterwards  pressed  to  my  own  lips.  This 
link  between  us  (for  such  it  now  appeared  to  my  imagination)  called 
up  again  in  my  heart  all  the  burning  feelings  of  that  moment,  and 
had  I not  abruptly  turned  away,  my  agitation  would  have  but  too 
plainly  betrayed  itself. 

The  object  for  which  we  had  delayed  in  this  gay  scene  having 
been  accomplished,  the  sail  was  again  spread,  and  we  proceeded  on 
our  course  up  the  river.  The  sounds  and  the  lights  we  had  left  be- 
hind died  gradually  away,  and  we  now  floated  along  in  moonlight 
and  silence  once  more.  Sweet  dews,  worthy  of  being  called  “the 
tears  of  Isis,”  fell  refreshingly  through  the  air,  and  every  plant  and 
flower  sent  its  fragrance  to  meet  them.  The  wind,  just  strong 
enough  to  bear  us  smoothly  against  the  current,  scarce  stirred  the 
shadow  of  the  tamarisks  on  the  water.  As  the  inhabitants  from  all 
quarters  were  collected  at  the  night-fair,  the  Nile  was  more  than 
usually  still  and  solitary.  Such  a silence,  indeed,  prevailed  that,  as 
we  glided  near  the  shore,  we  could  hear  the  rustling  of  the  acacias 
as  the  chameleons  ran  up  their  stems.  It  was  altogether  such  a 
night  as  only  the  climate  of  Egypt  can  boast,  when  the  whole  scene 
around  lies  lulled  in  that  sort  of  bright  tranquillity  which  may  be 
imagined  to  light  the  slumbers  of  those  happy  spirits  who  are  said 
to  rest  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  on  their  way  to  heaven. 

By  such  a light,  and  at  such  an  hour,  seated  side  by  side  on  the 
deck  of  that  bark,  did  we  pursue  our  course  up  the  lonely  Nile, 
each  a mystery  to  the  other,  our  thoughts,  our  objects,  our  very 
names  a secret ; separated,  too,  till  now  by  destinies  so  different ; 
the  one  a gay  voluptuary  of  the  garden  of  Athens,  the  other  a 
secluded  priestess  of  the  temples  of  Memphis,  and  the  only  rela- 
tion yet  established  between  us  being  that  dangerous  one  of  love, 
passionate  love,  on  one  side,  and  the  most  feminine  and  confiding 
dependence  on  the  other. 

The  passing  adventure  of  the  night-fair  had  not  only  dispelled  a 
little  our  mutual  reserve,  but  had  luckily  furnished  us  with  a sub- 
ject on  which  we  could  converse  without  embarrassment.  From 


57-  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

this  topic  I took  care  to  lead  her,  without  any  interruption,  to 
others,  being  fearful  lest  our  former  silence  should  return,  and  the 
music  of  her  voice  again  be  lost  to  me.  It  was  only,  indeed,  by  thus 
indirectly  unburdening  my  heart  that  I was  enabled  to  avoid  the 
disclosure  of  all  I thought  and  felt,  and  the  restless  rapidity  with 
which  I flew  from  subject  to  subject  was  but  an  effort  to  escape 
from  the  only  one  in  which  my  heart  was  really  interested. 

“How  bright  and  happy,”  said  I — pointing  up  to  Sothis,  the  fair 
Star  of  the  Waters,  which  was  just  then  shining  brilliantly  over  our 
heads — “how  bright  and  happy  this  world  ought  to  be,  if,  as  your 
Egyptian  sages  assert,  yon  pure  and  beautiful  luminary  was  its  birth- 
star  ! ” Then,  still  leaning  back,  and  letting  my  eyes  wander  over  the 
firmament,  as  if  seeking  to  disengage  them  from  the  fascination  which 
they  dreaded.  “To  the  study,”  I exclaimed,  “for  ages  of  skies 
like  this  may  the  pensive  and  mystic  character  of  your  nation  be 
traced — that  mixture  of  pride  and  melancholy  which  naturally 
arises  at  the  sight  of  those  eternal  lights  shining  out  of  darkness ; 
that  sublime  but  saddened  anticipation  of  a future  which  steals 
sometimes  over  the  soul  in  the  silence  of  such  an  hour,  when,  though 
death  appears  to  reign  in  the  deep  stillness  of  earth,  there  are  yet 
those  beacons  of  immortality  burning  in  the  sky.” 

Pausing  as  I uttered  the  word  “ immortality,”  with  a sigh  to 
think  how  little  my  heart  echoed  to  my  lips,  I looked  in  the  face  of 
my  companion,  and  saw  that  it  had  lighted  up,  as  I spoke,  into  a 
glow  of  holy  animation,  such  as  Faith  alone  gives,  such  as  Hope 
herself  wears  when  she  is  dreaming  of  heaven.  Touched  by  the 
contrast,  and  gazing  upon  her  with  mournful  tenderness,  I found 
my  arms  half  opened  to  clasp  her  to  my  heart,  while  the  words 
died  away  inaudibly  upon  my  lips,  “ Thou,  too,  beautiful  maiden  ! 
must  thou,  too,  die  for  ever  ?” 

My  self-command,  I felt,  had  nearly  deserted  me.  Rising  abrupt- 
ly from  my  seat,  I walked  to  the  middle  of  the  deck,  and  stood  for 
some  moments  unconsciously  gazing  upon  one  of  those  fires  which — 
according  to  the  custom  of  all  who  travel  by  night  on  the  Nile — our 
boatmen  had  kindled  to  scare  away  the  crocodiles  from  the  vessel. 
But  it  was  in  vain  that  I endeavored  to  compose  my  spirit.  Every 
effort  I made  but  more  deeply  convinced  me  that  till  the  mystery 
which  hung  round  that  maiden  should  be  solved,  till  the  secret 
with  which  my  own  bosom  labored  should  be  disclosed,  it  was 
fruitless  to  attempt  even  a semblance  of  tranquillity. 


Thomas  Moore. 


573 


My  resolution  was  therefore  taken  : to  lay  open  at  once  the  feel- 
ings of  my  own  heart,  as  far  as  such  revealment  might  be  hazarded, 
without  startling  the  timid  innocence  of  my  companion.  Thus  re- 
solved, I resumed  by  seat,  with  more  composure,  by  her  side,  and 
taking  from  my  bosom  the  small  mirror  which  she  had  dropped  in 
the  temple,  and  which  I had  ever  since  worn  suspended  round  my 
neck,  presented  it  with  a trembling  hand  to  her  view.  The  boat- 
men had  just  kindled  one  of  their  night-fires  near  us,  and  its  light, 
as  she  leaned  forward  to  look  at  the  mirror,  fell  upon  her  face. 

The  quick  blush  of  surprise  with  which  she  recognized  it  to  be 
hers,  and  her  look  of  bashful  yet  eager  enquiry  in  raising  her  eyes 
to  mine,  were  appeals  to  which  I was  not,  of  course,  tardy  in  an- 
swering. Beginning  with  the  first  moment  when  I saw  her  in  the 
temple,  and  passing  hastily,  but  with  words  that  burned  as  they 
went,  over  the  impression  which  she  had  then  left  upon  my  heart 
and  fancy,  I proceeded  to  describe  the  particulars  of  my  descent  into 
the  pyramid,  my  surprise  and  adoration  at  the  door  of  the  chapel, 
my  encounter  with  the  trials  of  initiation,  so  mysteriously  pre- 
pared for  me,  and  all  the  various  visionary  wonders  I had  witnessed 
in  that  region,  till  the  moment  when  I had  seen  her  stealing  from 
under  the  veils  to  approach  me. 

Though,  in  detailing  these  events,  I had  said  but  little  of  the 
feelings  they  had  awakened  in  me,  though  my  lips  had  sent  back 
many  a sentence  unuttered,  there  was  still  enough  that  could 
neither  be  subdued  nor  disguised,  and  which,  like  that  light  from 
under  the  veils  of  her  own  Isis,  glowed  through  every  word  that  I 
spoke.  When  I told  of  the  scene  in  the  chapel,  of  the  silent  inter- 
view which  I had  witnessed  between  the  dead  and  the  living,  the 
maiden  leaned  down  her  head  and  wept,  as  from  a heart  full  of 
tears.  It  seemed  a pleasure  to  her,  however,  to  listen,  and  when 
she  looked  at  me  again  there  was  an  earnest  and  affectionate  cor- 
diality in  her  eyes,  as  if  the  knowledge  of  my  having  been  present 
at  that  mournful  scene  had  opened  a new  source  of  sympathy  and 
intelligence  between  us,  so  neighboring  are  the  fountains  of  love 
and  of  sorrow,  and  so  imperceptibly  do  they  often  mingle  their 
streams. 

Little,  indeed,  as  I was  guided  by  art  or  design  in  manner  and 
conduct  towards  this  innocent  girl,  not  all  the  most  experienced 
gallantry  of  the  garden  could  have  dictated  a policy  half  so  seduc- 
tive as  that  which  my  new  master,  Love,  now  taught  me.  The  same 


574 


The  Prose  a?id  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


ardor  which,  if  shown  at  once  and  without  reserve,  might  probably 
have  startled  a heart  so  little  prepared  for  it,  being  now  checked 
and  softened  by  the  timidity  of  real  love,  won  its  way  without 
alarm,  and,  when  most  diffident  of  success,  was  then  most  surely  on 
its  way  to  triumph.  Like  one  whose  slumbers  are  gradually  broken 
by  sweet  music,  the  maiden’s  heart  was  awakened  without  being 
disturbed.  She  followed  the  course  of  the  charm,  unconscious 
whither  it  led,  nor  was  even  aware  of  the  flame  she  had  lighted  in 
another’s  bosom  till  startled  by  the  reflection  of  it  glimmering  in 
her  own. 

Impatient  as  I was  to  appeal  to  her  generosity  and  sympathy  for 
a similar  proof  of  confidence  to  that  which  I had  just  given,  the 
night  was  now  too  far  advanced  for  me  to  impose  upon  her  such  a 
task.  After  exchanging  a few  words,  in  which,  though  little  met 
the  ear,  there  was  on  both  sides  a tone  and  manner  that  spoke  far 
more  than  language,  we  took  a lingering  leave  of  each  other  for  the 
night,  with  every  prospect,  I fondly  hoped,  of  being  still  together 
in  our  dreams. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

It  was  so  near  the  dawn  of  day  when  we  parted  that  we  found 
the  sun  sinking  westward  when  we  rejoined  each  other.  The  smile, 
so  frankly  cordial,  with  which  she  met  me  might  have  been  taken 
for  the  greeting  of  a long-mellowed  friendship,  did  not  the  blush 
and  the  cast-down  eyelid  that  followed  betray  symptoms  of  a feeling 
newer  and  less  calm.  For  myself,  lightened  as  I was  in  some  de- 
gree by  the  avowal  which  I had  made,  I was  yet  too  conscious  of 
the  new  aspect  thus  given  to  our  intercourse  not  to  feel  some  little 
alarm  at  the  prospect  of  returning  to  the  theme.  We  were  both, 
therefore,  alike  willing  to  allow  our  attention  to  be  diverted  by  the 
variety  of  strange  objects  that  presented  themselves  on  the  way! 
from  a subject  that  evidently  both  were  alike  unwilling  to  ap- 
proach. 

The  river  was  now  all  stirring  with  commerce  and  life.  Every 
instant  we  met  with  boats  descending  the  current,  so  wholly  inde- 
pendent of  aid  from  sail  or  oar  that  the  mariners  sat  idly  on  the 
deck  as  they  shot  along,  either  singing  or  playing  upon  their 
double-reeded  pipes.  The  greater  number  of  these  boats  came  laden 
with  those  large  emeralds  from  the  mine  in  the  desert  whose  colors, 
it  is  said,  are  brightest  at  the  full  of  the  moon  ; while  some  brought 


Thomas  Moore . 


575 


cargoes  of  frankincense  from  the  acacia  groves  near  the  Ked  Sea. 
On  the  decks  of  others  that  had  been,  as  we  learned,  to  the  Golden 
Mountains  beyond  Syene,  were  heaped  blocks  and  fragments  of  that 
sweet-smelling  wood  which  is  yearly  washed  down  by  the  Green  Nile 
of  Nubia  at  the  season  of  the  flood. 

Our  companions  up  the  stream  were  far  less  numerous.  Occa- 
sionally a boat,  returning  lightened  from  the  fair  of  last  night, 
shot  rapidly  past  us,  with  those  high  sails  that  catch  every  breeze 
from  over  the  hills,  while  now  and  then  we  overtook  one  of  those 
barges  full  of  bees  that  are  sent  at  this  season  to  colonize  the  gardens 
of  the  south,  and  take  advantage  of  the  first  flowers  after  the  inun- 
dation has  passed  away. 

For  a short  time  this  constant  variety  of  objects  enabled  us  to 
divert  so  far  our  conversation  as  to  keep  it  from  lighting  upon  the 
one  sole  subject  round  which  it  constantly  hovered.  But  the  effort, 
as  might  be  expected,  was  not  long  successful.  As  evening  ad- 
vanced, the  whole  scene  became  more  solitary.  We  less  frequently 
ventured  to  look  upon  each  other,  and  our  intervals  of  silence  grew 
more  long. 

It  was  near  sunset  when,  in  passing  a small  temple  on  the  shore, 
whose  porticoes  were  now  full  of  the  evening  light,  we  saw  issuing 
from  a thicket  of  acanthus  near  it  a train  of  young  maidens  grace- 
fully linked  together  in  the  dance  by  the  stems  of  the  lotus  held  at 
arms’  length  between  them.  Their  tresses  were  also  wreathed  with 
this  gay  emblem  of  the  season,  and  in  such  profusion  were  its  white 
flowers  twisted  around  their  waists  and  arms  that  they  might  have 
been  taken,  as  they  lightly  bounded  along  the  bank,  for  nymphs  of 
the  Nile,  then  freshly  risen  from  their  bright  gardens  under  the 
wave. 

After  looking  for  a few  minutes  at  this  sacred  dance,  the  maiden 
turned  away  her  eyes  with  a look  of  pain,  as  if  the  remembrances  it 
recalled  were  of  no  welcome  nature.  This  momentary  retrospect, 
this  glimpse  into  the  past,  appeared  to  offer  a sort  of  clue  to  the 
secret  for  which  I panted,  and  accordingly  I proceeded,  as  gradually 
and  delicately  as  my  impatience  would  allow,  to  avail  myself  of  the 
opening.  Her  ow7n  frankness,  however,  relieved  me  from  the  em- 
barrassment of  much  questioning.  She  appeared  even  to  feel  that 
the  confidence  I sought  was  due  to  me,  and,  beyond  the  natural 
hesitation  of  maidenly  modesty,  not  a shade  of  reserve  or  evasion 
appeared. 


576 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


To  attempt  to  repeat,  in  her  own  touching  words,  the  simple 
story  which  sl\e  now  related  to  me  would  be  like  endeavoring  to 
note  down  some  unpremeditated  strain  of  music,  with  all  those  fugi- 
tive graces,  those  felicities  of  the  moment,  which  no  art  can  restore 
as  they  first  met  the  ear.  From  a feeling,  too,  of  humility,  she  had 
omitted  in  her  short  narrative  several  particulars  relating  to  herself, 
which  I afterwards  learned,  while  others  not  less  important  she 
but  lightly  passed  over,  from  a fear  of  offending  the  prejudices  of 
her  heathen  hearer. 

I shall,  therefore,  give  her  story,  not  as  she  herself  sketched  it, 
but  as  it  was  afterwards  filled  up  by  a pious  and  venerable  hand — 
far,  far  more  worthy  than  mine  of  being  associated  with  the  memory 
of  such  purity. 


STOEY  OF  ALETHE. 

“The  mother  of  this  maiden  was  the  beautiful  Theora  of  Alex- 
andria, who,  though  a native  of  that  city,  was  descended  from 
Grecian  parents.  When  very  young,  Theora  was  one-  of  the  seven 
maidens  selected  to  note  down  the  discourses  of  the  eloquent  Origen, 
who  at  that  period  presided  over  the  school  of  Alexandria,  and 
was  in  all  the  fullness  of  his  fame  both  among  pagans  and  Chris- 
tians. Endowed  richly  with  the  learning  of  both  creeds,  he  brought 
the  natural  light  of  philosophy  to  illustrate  the  mysteries  of  faith, 
and  was  then  only  proud  of  his  knowledge  of  the  wisdom  of  this 
world  when  he  found  it  minister  usefully  to  the  triumph  of  divine 
truth. 

“ Although  he  had  courted  in  vain  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  it 
was  held,  through  his  whole  life,  suspended  over  his  head,  and  in 
more  than  one  persecution  he  had  shown  himself  cheerfully  ready  to 
die  for  that  holy  faith  which  he  lived  but  to  testify  and  uphold. 
On  one  of  these  occasions  his  tormentors,  having  habited  him  like 
an  Egyptian  priest,  placed  him  upon  the  steps  of  the  Temple  of 
Serapis,  and  commanded  that  he  should,  in  the  manner  of  the 
pagan  ministers,  present  palm-branches  to  the  multitude  who  went 
up  into  the  shrine.  But  the  courageous  Christian  disappointed 
their  views.  Holding  forth  the  branches  with  an  unshrinking 
hand,  he  cried  aloud,  ‘Come  hither  and  take  the  branch — not  of  an 
idol  temple,,  but  of  Christ.’ 

%<  So  indefatigable  was  this  learned  father  in  his  studies  that  while 


Thomas  Moore . 


577 


composing  his  ‘ Commentary  on  the  Scriptures/  he  was  attended 
by  seven  scribes  or  notaries,  who  relieved  each  other  in  recording 
the  dictates  of  his  eloquent  tongue,  while  the  same  number  of  young 
females,  selected  for  the  beauty  of  their  penmanship,  were  employed 
in  arranging  and  transcribing  the  precious  leaves.29 

“ Among  the  scribes  so  selected  was  the  fair  young  Theora,  whose 
parents,  though  attached  to  the  pagan  worship,  were  not  unwilling 
to  profit  by  the  accomplishments  of  their  daughter  thus  occupied  in 
a task  which  they  looked  on  as  purely  mechanical.  To  the  maid 
herself,  however,  her  employment  brought  far  other  feelings  and 
consequences.  She  read  anxiously  as  she  wrote,  and  the  divine 
truths  so  eloquently  illustrated  found  their  way  by  degrees  from  the 
page  to  her  heart.  Deeply,  too,  as  the  written  words  affected  her,  the 
discourses  from  the  lips  of  the  great  teacher  himself,  which  she  had 
frequent  opportunities  of  hearing,  sunk  still  more  deeply  into  her 
mind.  There  was  at  once  a sublimity  and  gentleness  in  his  views 
of  religion  which  to  the  tender  hearts  and  lively  imaginations  of 
women  never  failed  to  appeal  with  convincing  power.  Accordingly 
the  list  of  his  female  pupils  was  numerous,  and  the  names  of  Bar- 
bara, Juliana,  Herai's,  and  others,  hear  honorable  testimony  to  his 
influence  over  that  sex. 

“ To  Theora  the  feeling  with  which  his  discourses  inspired  her 
was  like  a new  soul,  a consciousness  of  spiritual  existence  never  be- 
fore felt.  By  the  eloquence  of  the  comment  she  was  awakened 
into  admiration  of  the  text,  and  when,  by  the  kindness  of  a cate- 
chumen of  the  school,  who  had  been  struck  by  her  innocent  zeal, 
she  for  the  first  time  became  a possessor  of  a copy  of  the  Scriptures 
she  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  her  sacred  treasure.  With  a 
mixture  of  pleasure  and  fear,  she  hid  it  from  all  eyes,  and  was  like 
one  who  had  received  a divine  guest  under  her  roof  and  felt  fearful 
of  betraying  its  divinity  to  the  world. 

1 “A  heart  so  awake  would  have  been  with  ease  secured  to  the 
faith  had  her  opportunities  of  hearing  the  sacred  word  continued; 
but  circumstances  arose  to  deprive  her  of  this  advantage.  The  mild 
Origen,  long  harrassed  and  thwarted  in  his  labors  by  the  tyranny  of 
Demetrius,  Bishop  of  Alexandria,  was  obliged  to  relinquish  his 
school  and  fly  from  Egypt.  The  occupation  of  the  fair  scribe  was 
therefore  at  an  end,  her  intercourse  with  the  followers  of  the  new 

29  It  was  during  the  composition  of  his  great  critical  work,  the  “ Hexapla,”  that  Ori- 
gen employed  these  female  scribes. 


573 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


faith  ceased,  and  the  growing  enthusiasm  of  her  heart  gave  way  to 
more  worldly  impressions. 

“ Among  other  earthly  feelings,  love  conduced  not  a little  to  wean 
her  thoughts  from  the  true  religion.  While  still  very  young,  she 
became  the  wife  of  a Greek  adventurer  who  had  come  to  Egypt  as  a 
purchaser  of  that  rich  tapestry  in  which  the  needles  of  Persia  are 
rivalled  by  the  looms  of  the  Nile.  Having  taken  his  young  bride 
to  Memphis,  which  was  still  the  great  mart  of  this  merchandise,  he 
there,  in  the  midst  of  his  speculations,  died,  leaving  his  widow  on 
the  point  of  becoming  a mother,  while  as  yet  but  in  her  nineteenth 
year. 

“For  single  and  unprotected  females  it  has  been,  at  all  times,  a 
favorite  resource  to  seek  for  employment  in  the  service  of  some  of 
those  great  temples  by  which  so  large  a portion  of  the  wealth  and 
power  of  Egypt  is  absorbed.  In  most  of  these  institutions  there 
exists  an  order  of  priestesses,  which,  though  not  hereditary  like  that 
of  the  priests,  is  provided  for  by  ample  endowments,  and  confers 
that  dignity  and  station  with  which,  in  a government  so  theocratic, 
religion  is  sure  to  invest  even  her  humblest  handmaids.  From 
the  general  policy  of  the  Sacred  College  of  Memphis,  we  take 
for  granted  that  an  accomplished  female  like  Theora  found  but 
little  difficulty  in  being  elected  one  of  the  priestesses  of  Isis,  and 
it  was  in  the  service  of  the  subterranean  shrines  that  her  ministry 
chiefly  lay. 

“ Here,  a month  or  two  after  her  admission,  she  gave  birth  to 
Alethe,  who  first  opened  her  eyes  among  the  unholy  pomps  and 
specious  miracles  of  this  mysterious  region.  Though  Theora,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  been  diverted  by  other  feelings  from  her  first  enthu- 
siasm for  the  Christian  faith,  she  had  never  wholly  forgot  the  im- 
pression then  made  upon  her.  The  sacred  volume  which  the  pious 
catechumen  had  given  her  was  still  treasured  with  care,  and  though 
she  seldom  opened  its  pages,  there  was  always  an  idea  of  sanctity 
associated  with  it  in  her  memory,  and  often  would  she  sit  to  look 
upon  it  with  reverential  pleasure,  recalling  the  happiness  she  had 
felt  when  it  was  first  made  her  own. 

“The  leisure  of  her  new  retreat  and  the  lone  melancholy  of  wid- 
owhood led  her  still  more  frequently  to  indulge  in  such  thoughts, 
and  to  recur  to  those  consoling  truths  which  she  had  heard  in  the 
school  of  Alexandria.  She  now  began  to  peruse  eagerly  the  sacred 
volume,  drinking  deep  of  the  fountain  of  which  she  before  but 


Thomas  Moore . 


579 


tasted,  and  feeling — what  thousands  of  mourners  since  her  have 
felt — that  Christianity  is  the  true  and  only  religion  of  the  sor- 
rowful. 

“This  study  of  her  secret  hours  became  still  more  dear  to  her, 
as  well  from  the  peril  with  which  at  that  period  it  was  attended  as 
from  the  necessity  she  felt  herself  under  of  concealing  from  those 
around  her  the  precious  light  that  had  been  thus  kindled  in  her 
own  heart.  Too  timid  to  encounter  the  fierce  persecution  which 
awaited  all  who  were  suspected  of  a leaning  to  Christianity,  she 
continued  to  officiate  in  the  pomps  and  ceremonies  of  the  temple, 
though  often  with  such  remorse  of  soul  that  she  would  pause,  in 
the  midst  of  the  rites,  and  pray  inwardly  to  God  that  he  would  for- 
give this  profanation  of  his  Spirit. 

“ In  the  meantime  her  daughter,  the  young  Alethe,  grew  up  still 
lovelier  than  herself,  and  added  every  hour  both  to  her  happiness 
and  her  fears.  When  arrived  at  a sufficient  age,  she  was  taught, 
like  the  other  children  of  the  priestesses,  to  take  a share  in  the  ser- 
vice and  ceremonies  of  the  shrines.  The  duty  of  some  of  these 
young  servitors  was  to  look  after  the  flowers  for  the  altar,  of  others 
to  take  care  that  the  sacred  vases  were  filled  every  day  with  fresh 
water  from  the  Nile.  The  task  of  some  was  to  preserve  in  perfect 
polish  those  silver  images  of  the  moon  which  the  priests  carried  in 
processions,  while  others  were,  as  we  have  seen,  employed  in  feed- 
ing the  consecrated  animals,  and  in  keeping  their  plumes  and  scales 
bright  for  the  admiring  eyes  of  their  worshippers. 

“The  office  allotted  to  Alethe,  the  most  honorable  of  these 
minor  ministries,  was  to  wait  upon  the  sacred  birds  of  the  moon, 
to  feed  them  daily  with  those  eggs  from  the  Nile  which  they  loved, 
and  to  provide  for  their  use  that  purest  water,  which  alone  these 
delicate  birds  will  touch.  This  employment  was  the  delight  of 
her  childish  hours,  and  that  ibis  which  Alcipliron  (the  Epicurean) 
saw  her  dance  round  in  the  temple  was,  of  all  the  sacred  flock,  her 
especial  favorite,  and  had  been  daily  fondled  and  fed  by  her  from 
infancy. 

“ Music,  as  being  one  of  the  chief  spells  of  this  enchanted  region, 
was  an  accomplishment  required  of  all  its  ministrants,  and  the 
harp,  the  lyre,  and  the  sacred  flute  sounded  nowhere  so  sweetly  as 
through  these  subterranean  gardens.  The  chief  object,  indeed,  in 
the  education  of  the  youth  of  the  temple,  was  to  fit  them,  by  every 
grace  of  art  and  nature,  to  give  effect  to  the  illusion  of  those  shows 


580  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

and  phantasms  in  which  the  entire  charm  and  secret  of  initiation 
lay. 

“ Among  the  means  employed  to  support  the  old  system  of  super- 
stition against  the  infidelity  and,  still  more,  the  new  faith  that 
menaced  it,  was  an  increased  display  of  splendor  and  marvels  in 
those  mysteries  for  which  Egypt  has  so  long  been  celebrated.  Of 
these  ceremonies  so  many  imitations  had,  under  various  names, 
multiplied  throughout  Europe  that  at  length  the  parent  super- 
stition ran  a risk  of  being  eclipsed  by  its  progeny,  and  in  order  still 
to  rank  as  the  first  priesthood  in  the  world,  it  became  necessary  for 
those  of  Egypt  to  remain  still  the  best  imposters. 

“ Accordingly,  every  contrivance  that  art  could  devise  or  labor 
execute — every  resource  that  the  wonderful  knowledge  of  the  priests 
in  pyrotechny,  mechanics,  and  dioptrics  could  command,  was 
brought  into  action  to  heighten  the  effect  of  their  mysteries  and 
give  an  air  of  enchantment  to  everything  connected  with  them. 

“ The  final  scene  of  beatification,  the  Elysium  into  which  the 
initiate  was  received,  formed,  of  course,  the  leading  attraction  of 
these  ceremonies,  and  to  render  it  captivating  alike  to  the  senses  of 
the  man  of  pleasure  and  the  imagination  of  the  spiritualist,  was  the 
great  object  to  which  the  attention  of  the  Sacred  College  was  de- 
voted. By  the  influence  of  the  priests  of  Memphis  over  those  of  the 
other  temples,  they  had  succeeded  in  extending  their  subterranean 
frontier,  both  to  the  north  and  south,  so  as  to  include  within  their 
ever-lighted  paradise  some  of  the  gardens  excavated  for  the  use  of 
the  other  Twelve  Shrines. 

“ The  beauty  of  the  young  Alethe,  the  touching  sweetness  of  her 
voice,  and  the  sensibility  that  breathed  throughout  her  every  look 
and  movement,  rendered  her  a powerful  auxiliary  in  such  appeals  to 
the  imagination.  She  had  been,  accordingly,  in  her  very  childhood 
selected  from  among  her  fair  companions  as  the  most  worthy  repre- 
sentative of  spiritual  loveliness  in  those  pictures  of  Elysium — those 
scenes  of  another  world — by  which  not  only  the  fancy,  but  the  reason 
of  the  excited  aspirants  was  dazzled. 

“ To  the  innocent  child  herself  these  shows  were  pastime.  But 
to  Theora,  who  knew  too  well  the  imposition  to  which  they  were 
subservient,  this  profanation  of  all  that  she  loved  was  a perpetual 
source  of  horror  and  remorse.  Often  would  she,  when  Alethe  stood 
smiling  before  her,  arrayed,  perhaps,  as  a spirit  of  the  Elysian 
world,  turn  away  with  a shudder  from  the  happy  child,  almost 


Thomas  Moore . 581 

fancying  she  saw  already  the  shadows  of  sin  descending  over  that 
innocent  brow  as  she  gazed  upon  it. 

“ As  the  intellect  of  the  young  maid  became  more  active  and  en- 
quiring, the  apprehensions  and  difficulties  of  the  mother  increased. 
Afraid  to  communicate  her  own  precious  secret,  lest  she  should  in- 
volve her  child  in  the  dangers  that  encompassed  it,  she  yet  felt  it  to 
be  no  less  a cruelty  than  a crime  to  leave  her  wholly  immersed  in 
the  darkness  of  paganism.  In  this  dilemma  the  only  resource  that 
remained  to  her  was  to  select  and  disengage  from  the  dross  that 
surrounded  them  those  pure  particles  of  truth  which  lie  at  the  bot- 
tom of  all  religions — those  feelings,  rather  than  doctrines,  of  which 
God  has  never  left  his  creatures  destitute,  and  which  in  all  ages 
have  furnished  to  those  who  sought  after  it  some  clue  to  his  glory. 

“The  unity  and  perfect  goodness  of  the  Creator,  the  fall  of  the 
human  soul  into  corruption,  its  struggles  with  the  darkness  of  this 
world,  and  its  final  redemption  and  reascent  to  the  source  of  all 
spirit ; these  natural  solutions  of  the  problem  of  our  existence,  these 
elementary  grounds  of  all  religion  and  virtue  which  Theora  had 
heard  illustrated  by  her  Christian  teacher,  lay  also,  she  knew,  veiled 
under  the  theology  of  Egypt,  and  to  impress  them  in  their  abstract 
purity  upon  the  mind  of  her  susceptible  pupil  was,  in  default  of 
more  heavenly  lights,  her  sole  ambition  and  care. 

“ It  was  generally  their  habit,  after  devoting  their  mornings  to 
the  service  of  the  temple,  to  pass  their  evenings  and  nights  in  one 
of  those  small  mansions  above  ground  allotted  within  the  precincts 
of  the  Sacred  College  to  some  of  the  most  favored  priestesses.  Here, 
out  of  the  reach  of  those  gross  superstitions  which  pursued  them 
at  every  step  below,  she  endeavored  to  inform,  as  far  as  she  could 
venture,  the  mind  of  her  beloved  girl,  and  found  it  lean  as  naturally 
and  instinctively  to  truth  as  plants  long  shut  up  in  darkness  will 
when  light  is  let  in  upon  them  incline  themselves  to  its  rays. 

“Frequently,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  terrace  at  night  admir- 
ing that  glorious  assembly  of  stars  whose  beauty  first  misled  man- 
kind into  idolatry,  she  would  explain  to  the  young  listener  by  what 
gradations  of  error  it  was  that  the  worship  thus  transferred  from 
the  Creator  to  the  creature  sunk  still  lower  and  lower  in  the  scale 
of  being  till  man  at  length  presumed  to  deify  man,  and  by  the  most 
monstrous  of  inversions  heaven  was  made  the  mere  mirror  of  earth, 
reflecting  back  all  its  most  earthly  features. 

Even  in  the  temple  itself  the  anxious  mother  would  endeavor 


5 82  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

to  interpose  her  purer  lessons  among  the  idolatrous  ceremonies  in 
which  they  were  engaged.  When  the  favorite  ibis  of  Alethe  took 
its  station  upon  the  shrine,  and  the  young  maiden  was  seen  ap- 
proaching, with  all  the  gravity  of  worship,  the  very  bird  which  she 
had  played  with  but  an  hour  before — when  the  acacia-bough  which 
she  herself  had  plucked  seemed  to  acquire  a sudden  sacredness  in 
her  eyes  as  soon  as  the  priest  had  breathed  upon  it — on  all  such 
occasions  Theora,  though  with  fear  and  trembling,  would  venture 
to  suggest  to  the  youthful  worshipper  the  distinction  that  should 
be  drawn  between  the  sensible  object  of  adoration  and  that  spiritual, 
unseen  Deity  of  which  it  was  but  the  remembrancer  or  type. 

“With  sorrow,  however,  she  soon  discovered  that  in  thus  but 
partially  letting  in  light  upon  a mind  far  too  ardent  to  rest  satisfied 
with  such  glimmerings  she  but  bewildered  the  heart  which  she 
meant  to  guide,  and  cut  down  the  feeble  hope  around  which  its 
faith  twined,  without  substituting  any  other  sujiport  in  its  place. 
As  the  beauty,  too,  of  Alethe  began  to  attract  all  eyes,  new  fears 
crowded  upon  the  mother’s  heart — fears  in  which  she  was  but  too 
much  justified  by  the  characters  of  some  of  those  around  her. 

“ In  this  sacred  abode,  as  may  easily  be  conceived,  morality  did 
not  always  go  hand  in  hand  with  religion.  The  hypocritical  and 
ambitious  Orcus,  who  was  at  this  period  high-priest  of  Memphis, 
was  a man  in  every  respect  qualified  to  preside  over  a system  of  such 
splendid  fraud.  He  had  reached  that  effective  time  of  life  when 
enough  of  the  warmth  and  vigor  of  youth  remains  to  give  anima- 
tion to  the  counsels  of  age.  But  in  his  instance  youth  had  left 
only  the  baser  passions  behind,  while  age  but  brought  with  it  a 
more  refined  maturity  of  mischief.  The  advantages  of  a faith  ap- 
pealing almost  wholly  to  the  senses  were  well  understood  by  him,  nor 
had  he  failed  either  to  discover  that  in  order  to  render  religion  sub- 
servient to  his  own  interests  he  must  shape  it  adroitly  to  the  interests 
and  passions  of  others. 

“ The  state  of  anxiety  and  remorse  in  which  the  mind  of  the 
hapless  Theora  was  kept  by  the  scenes,  however  artfully  veiled, 
which  she  daily  witnessed  around  her  became  at  length  intolerable. 
Ho  perils  that  the  cause  of  truth  could  bring  with  it  would  be  half 
so  dreadful  as  this  endurance  of  sinfulness  and  deceit.  Her  child 
was  as  yet  pure  and  innocent,  but,  without  that  sentinel  of  the  soul, 
religion,  how  long  might  she  continue  so  ? 

“ This  thought  at  once  decided  her.  All  other  fears  vanished 


Thomas  Moore . 


583 


before  it.  She  resolved  instantly  to  lay  open  to  Alethe  the  whole 
secret  of  her  soul  ; to  make  this  child,  who  was  her  only  hope  on 
earth,  the  sharer  of  all  her  hopes  in  heaven,  and  then  fly  with  her, 
as  soon  as  possible,  from  this  unhallowed  spot  to  the  far  desert,  to 
the  mountains,  to  any  place,  however  desolate,  where  God  and  the 
consciousness  of  innocence  might  be  with  them. 

“ The  promptitude  with  which  her  young  pupil  caught  from  her 
the  divine  truths  was  even  beyond  what  she  expected.  It  was  like 
the  lighting  of  one  torch  at  another,  so  prepared  was  Alethe’s  mind 
for  the  illumination.  Amply,  indeed,  was  the  anxious  mother  now 
repaid  for  all  her  misery  by  this  perfect  communion  of  love  and 
faith,  and  by  the  delight  with  which  she  saw  her  beloved  child,  like 
the  young  antelope  when  first  led  by  her  dam  to  the  well,  drink 
thirstily  by  her  side  at  the  source  of  all  life  and  truth. 

“ But  such  happiness  was  not  long  to  last.  The  anxieties  that 
Theora  had  suffered  began  to  prey  upon  her  health.  She  felt  her 
strength  daily  decline,  and  the  thoughts  of  leaving,  alone  and  un- 
guarded in  the  world,  that  treasure  which  she  had  just  devoted  to 
heaven,  gave  her  a feeling  of  despair  which  but  hastened  the  ebb  of 
life.  Had  she  put  in  practice  her  resolution  of  flying  from  this 
place,  her  child  might  have  been  now  beyond  the  reach  of  all  she 
dreaded,  and  in  the  solitude  of  the  desert  would  have  found  at  least 
safety  from  wrong.  But  the  very  happiness  she  had  felt  in  her  new 
task  diverted  her  from  this  project,  and  it  was  now  too  late,  for 
she  was  already  dying. 

“ She  still  continued,  however,  to  conceal  the  state  of  her  health 
from  the  tender  and  sanguine  girl,  who,  though  observing  the 
traces  of  disease  on  her  mother’s  cheek,  little  knew  that  they  were 
the  hastening  footsteps  of  death,  nor  even  thought  of  the  possibility 
of  ever  losing  what  was  so  dear  to  her.  Too  soon,  however,  the 
moment  of  separation  arrived,  and  while  the  anguish  and  dismay 
of  Alethe  were  in  proportion  to  the  security  in  which  she  had 
indulged,  Theora,  too,  felt,  with  bitter  regret,  that  she  had  sacri- 
ficed to  her  fond  consideration  much  precious  time,  and  that  there 
now  remained  but  a few  brief  and  painful  moments  for  the  com- 
munication of  all  those  wishes  and  instructions  on  which  the  future 
destiny  of  the  young  orphan  depended. 

“ She  had,  indeed,  time  for  little  more  than  to  place  the  sacred 
volume  solemnly  in  her  hands ; to  implore  that  she  would,  at  all 
risks,  fly  from  this  unholy  place  ; and,  pointing  in  the  direction  of 


584 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


the  mountains  of  the  Said,  to  name  with  her  last  breath  the  venera- 
ble man  to  whom,  under  heaven,  she  looked  for  the  protection  and 
salvation  of  her  child. 

“ The  first  violence  of  feeling  to  which  Alethe  gave  way  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a fixed  and  tearless  grief,  which  rendered  her  insensible 
for  some  time  to  the  dangers  of  her  situation.  Her  sole  comfort 
consisted  in  visiting  that  monumental  chapel  where  the  beautiful 
remains  of  Theora  lay.  There,  night  after  night,  in  contemplation 
of  those  placid  features,  and  in  prayers  for  the  peace  of  the  departed 
spirit,  did  she  pass  her  lonely  and,  however  sad  they  were,  happiest 
hours.  Though  the  mystic  emblems  that  decorated  that  chapel  were 
but  ill-suited  to  the  slumber  of  a Christian,  there  was  one  among 
them,  the  cross,  which,  by  a remarkable  coincidence,  is  an  emblem 
alike  common  to  the  Gentile  and  the  Christian,  being  to  the  former 
a shadowy  type  of  that  immortality  of  which  to  the  latter  it  is  a 
substantial  and  assuring  pledge. 

“Nightly  upon  this  cross,  which  she  had  often  seen  her  lost 
mother  kiss,  did  she  breathe  forth  a solemn  and  heartfelt  vow 
never  to  abandon  the  faith  which  that  departed  spirit  had  bequeathed 
to  her.  To  such  enthusiasm,  indeed,  did  her  heart  at  such  mo- 
ments rise  that  but  for  the  last  injunctions  of  those  pallid  lips  she 
would  at  once  have  avowed  her  perilous  secret,  and  boldly  pronounce 
the  words,  ‘ I am  a Christian,’  among  those  benighted  shrines  ! 

“ But  the  will  of  her  to  whom  she  owed  more  than  life  was  to  be 
obeyed.  To  escape  from  this  haunt  of  superstition  must  now,  she 
felt,  be  her  first  object,  and  in  planning  the  means  of  effecting  it 
her  mind,  day  and  night,  was  employed.  It  was  with  a loathing 
not  to  be  concealed  that  she  now  found  herself  compelled  to  resume 
her  idolatrous  services  at  the  shrine.  To  some  of  the  offices  of 
Theora  she  succeeded,  as  is  the  custom,  by  inheritance,  and  in  the 
performance  of  these  tasks,  sanctified  as  they  were  in  her  eyes  by 
the  pure  spirit  she  had  seen  engaged  in  them,  there  was  a sort  of 
melancholy  pleasure  in  which  her  sorrow  found  relief.  But  the 
part  she  was  again  forced  to  take  in  the  scenic  shows  of  the  myste- 
ries brought  with  it  a sense  of  degradation  and  wrong  which  she 
could  no  longer  endure. 

“ Already  had  she  formed  in  her  own  mind  a plan  of  escape,  in 
which  her  acquaintance  with  all  the  windings  of  this  mystic  realm 
gave  her  confidence,  when  the  solemn  reception  of  Alciphron  as  an 
initiate  took  place. 


Thomas  Moore. 


585 


“ From  the  first  moment  of  the  landing  of  that  philosopher  at 
Alexandria  he  had  become  an  object  of  suspicion  and  watchfulness 
to  tne  inquisitorial  Orcus,  whom  philosophy,  in  any  shape,  naturally 
alarmed,  but  to  whom  the  sect  over  which  the  young  Athenian  pre- 
sided was  particularly  obnoxious.  The  accomplishments  of  Alci- 
phron,  his  popularity  wherever  he  went,  and  the  bold  freedom  with 
which  he  indulged  his  wit  at  the  expense  of  religion,  were  all  faith- 
fully reported  to  the  high-priest  by  his  spies,  and  awakened  in  his 
mind  no  kindly  feelings  towards  the  stranger.  In  dealing  with  an 
infidel,  such  a personage  as  Orcus  could  know  no  other  alternative 
but  that  of  either  converting  or  destroying  him,  and  though  his 
spite  as  a man  would  have  been  more  gratified  by  the  latter  pro- 
ceeding, his  pride  as  a priest  led  him  to  prefer  the  triumph  of  the 
former. 

<c  The  first  descent  of  the  Epicurean  into  the  pyramid  became 
speedily  known,  and  the  alarm  was  immediately  given  to  the  priests 
below.  As  soon  as  they  had  discovered  that  the  young  philosopher 
of  Athens  was  the  intruder,  and  that  he  not  only  still  continued  to 
linger  around  the  pyramid,  but  was  observed  to  look  often  and  wist- 
fully towards  the  portal,  it  was  concluded  that  his  curiosity  would 
impel  him  to  try  a second  descent,  and  Orcus,  blessing  the  good 
chance  which  had  thus  brought  the  wild  bird  into  his  net,  resolved 
not  to  suffer  an  opportunity  so  precious  to  be  wasted. 

<{  Instantly  the  whole  of  that  wonderful  machinery  by  which  the 
phantasms  and  illusions  of  initiation  are  produced  were  put  in  active 
preparation  throughout  that  subterranean  realm,  and  the  increased 
stir  and  vigilance  awakened  among  its  inmates  by  this  more  than 
ordinary  display  of  the  resources  of  priestcraft  rendered  the  accom- 
plishment of  Aletlie’s  purpose  at  such  a moment  peculiarly  difficult. 
Wholly  ignorant  of  the  important  share  which  it  had  been  her  own 
fortune  to  take  in  attracting  the  young  philosopher  down  to  this 
region,  she  but  heard  of  him  vaguely  as  the  chief  of  a great  Grecian 
sect,  who  had  been  led,  by  either  curiosity  or  accident,  to  expose 
himself  to  the  first  trials  of  initiation,  and  whom  the  priests,  she 
could  see,  were  endeavoring  to  ensnare  in  their  toils  by  every  art  and 
lure  with  which  their  dark  science  had  gifted  them. 

“ To  her  mind  the  image  of  a philosopher  such  as  Alciphron  had 
been  represented  to  her  came  associated  with  ideas  of  age  and 
reverence,  and  more  than  once  the  possibility  of  his  being  made 
instrumental  to  her  deliverance  flashed  a hope  across  her  heart  in 


586 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


which  she  could  not  refrain  from  indulging.  Often  had  she  been 
told  by  Theora  of  the  many  Gentile  sages  who  had  laid  their  wisdom 
down  humbly  at  the  foot  of  the  cross ; and  though  this  initiate,  she 
feared,  could  hardly  be  among  the  number,  yet  the  rumors  which 
she  had  gathered  from  the  servants  of  the  temple  of  his  undisguised 
contempt  for  the  errors  of  heathenism  led  her  to  hope  she  might 
find  tolerance,  if  not  sympathy,  in  her  appeal  to  him. 

44  Nor  was  it  solely  with  a view  to  her  own  chance  of  deliverance 
that  she  thus  connected  him  in  her  thoughts  with  the  plan  which 
she  meditated.  The  look  of  proud  and  self-gratulating  malice  with 
which  the  high-priest  had  mentioned  this  4 infidel/  as  he  styled 
him,  when  giving  her  instructions  in  the  scene  she  was  to  act  before 
the  philosopher  in  the  valley,  too  plainly  informed  her  of  the  dark 
destiny  that  hung  over  him.  She  knew  how  many  were  the  hapless 
candidates  for  initiation  who  had  been  doomed  to  a durance  worse 
than  that  of  the  grave  for  but  a word,  a whisper  breathed  against 
the  sacred  absurdities  that  they  witnessed ; and  it  was  evident  to 
her  that  the  venerable  Greek  (for  such  her  fancy  represented  Alci- 
phron)  was  no  less  interested  in  escaping  from  the  snares  and  perils 
of  this  region  than  herself. 

44  Her  own  resolution  was,  at  all  events,  fixed.  That  visionary 
scene  in  which  she  had  appeared  before  Alciphron,  little  knowing 
how  ardent  were  the  heart  and  imagination  over  which  her  beauty 
at  that  moment  exercised  its  influence,  was,  she  solemnly  resolved, 
the  very  last  unholy  service  that  superstition  or  imposture  should 
ever  command  of  her. 

44  On  the  following  night  the  aspirant  was  to  watch  in  the  Great 
Temple  of  Isis.  Such  an  opportunity  of  approaching  and  address- 
ing him  might  never  come  again.  Should  he,  from  compassion  for 
her  situation  or  a sense  of  the  danger  of  his  own,  consent  to  lend 
his  aid  to  her  flight,  most  gladly  would  she  accept  it,  well  assured 
that  no  danger  or  treachery  she  might  risk  could  be  half  so  odious 
and  fearful  as  those  which  she  left  behind.  Should  he,  on  the  con- 
trary, reject  the  proposal,  her  determination  was  equally  fixed — to 
trust  to  that  God  whose  eye  watches  over  the  innocent,  and  go  forth 
alone. 

44  To  reach  the  island  in  Lake  Moeris  was  her  first  great  object, 
and  there  occurred,  fortunately,  at  this  time  a mode  of  effecting  her 
purpose  by  which  both  the  difficulty  and  dangers  of  the  attempt 
would  be  much  diminished.  The  day  of  the  annual  visitation  of  the 


Thomas  Moore. 


537 


high-priest  to  the  Place  of  Weeping — as  that  island  in  the  centre 
of  the  lake  is  called — was  now  fast  approaching,  and  Alethe  knew 
that  the  self-moving  car  by  which  the  high-priest  and  one  of  the 
hierophants  are  conveyed  down  to  the  chambers  under  the  lake 
stood  then  waiting  in  readiness.  By  availing  herself  of  this  expedi- 
ent, she  would  gain  the  double  advantage  both  of  facilitating  her 
own  flight  and  retarding  the  speed  of  her  pursuers. 

“ Having  paid  a last  visit  to  the  tomb  of  her  beloved  mother,  and 
wept  there  long  and  passionately,  till  her  heart  almost  failed  in  the 
struggle,  having  paused,  too,  fo  give  a kiss  to  her  favorite  ibis, 
which,  although  too  much  a Christian  to  worship,  she  was  still  child 
enough  to  love,  she  went  early,  with  a trembling  step,  to  the  sanc- 
tuary, and  there  hid  herself  in  one  of  the  recesses  of  the  shrine.  Her 
intention  was  to  steal  out  from  thence  to  Alciphron  while  it  was  yet 
dark,  and  before  the  illumination  of  the  great  statue  behind  the 
veils  had  begun.  But  her  fears  delayed  her  till  it  was  almost  too 
late ; already  was  the  image  lighted  up,  and  still  she  remained 
trembling  in  her  hiding-place. 

“ In  a few  minutes  more  the  mighty  veils  would  have  been  with- 
drawn and  the  glories  of  that  scene  of  enchantment  laid  open, 
when  at  length,  summoning  all  her  courage  and  taking  advantage 
of  a momentary  absence  of  those  employed  in  preparing  this  splen- 
did mockery,  she  stole  from  under  the  veil  and  found  her  way 
through  the  gloom  to  the  Epicurean.  There  was  then  no  time  for 
explanation ; she  had  but  to  trust  to  the  simple  words,  4 Follow, 
and  be  silent/  and  the  implicit  readiness  with  which  she  found 
them  obeyed  filled  her  with  no  less  surprise  than  the  philosopher 
himself  had  felt  in  hearing  them. 

“ In  a second  or  two  they  were  on  their  way  through  the  subter- 
ranean windings,  leaving  the  ministers  of  Isis  to  waste  their  splen- 
dors on  vacancy,  through  a long  series  of  miracles  and  visions  which 
they  now  exhibited,  unconscious  that  he  whom  they  were  taking 
such  pains  to  dazzle  was  already,  under  the  guidance  of  the  young 
Christian,  far  removed  beyond  the  reach  of  their  deceiving  spells.” 

chapter  xm. 

Such  was  the  singular  story  of  which  this  innocent  girl  now  gave 
me,  in  her  own  touching  language,  the  outline. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  as  she  finished  her  narrative.  Fearful  of 
encountering  the  expression  of  those  feelings  with  which,  she  could 


588 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


not  but  observe,  I was  affected  by  her  recital,  scarcely  had  she  con- 
cluded the  last  sentence,  when,  rising  abruptly  from  her  seat,  she 
hurried  into  the  pavilion,  leaving  me  with  the  words  fast  crowding 
for  utterance  to  my  lips. 

Oppressed  by  the  various  emotions  thus  sent  back  upon  my  heart, 
I lay  down  on  the  deck  in  a state  of  agitation  that  defied  even  the 
most  distant  approaches  of  sleep.  While  every  word  she  had  uttered, 
every  feeling  she  expressed,  but  ministered  new  fuel  to  that  flame 
which  consumed  me,  and  to  describe  which  passion  is  far  too  weak 
a word,  there  was  also  much  of  her  recital  that  disheartened  and 
alarmed  me.  To  find  a Christian  thus  under  the  garb  of  a Mem- 
phian priestess  was  a discovery  that,  had  my  heart  been  less  deeply 
interested,  would  but  have  more  powerfully  stimulated  my  imagi- 
nation and  pride.  But  when  I recollected  the  austerity  of  the 
faith  she  had  embraced,  the  tender  and  sacred  tie  associated  with  it 
in  her  memory,  and  the  devotion  of  woman’s  heart  to  objects  thus 
consecrated,  her  very  perfections  but  widened  the  distance  between 
us,  and  all  that  most  kindled  my  passion  at  the  same  time  chilled 
my  hopes. 

Were  we  to  be  left  to  each  other,  as  on  this  silent  river,  in  such 
undisturbed  communion  of  thoughts  and  feelings,  I knew  too  well, 
I thought,  both  her  sex’s  nature  and  my  own  to  feel  a doubt  that 
love  would  ultimately  triumph.  But  the  severity  of  the  guardian- 
ship to  which  I must  resign  her — that  of  some  monk  in  the  desert, 
some  stern  solitary — the  influence  such  a monitor  would  gain  over 
her  mind,  and  the  horror  with  which  ere  long  he  might  teach  her 
to  regard  the  reprobate  infidel  upon  whom  she  now  smiled — in  all 
this  prospect  I saw  nothing  but  despair.  After  a few  short  hours, 
my  dream  of  happiness  would  be  at  an  end,  and  such  a dark  chasm 
must  then  open  between  our  fates  as  would  dissever  them  wide  as 
earth  from  heaven  asunder. 

It  was  true  she  was  now  wholly  in  my  power.  I feared  no  wit- 
nesses but  those  of  earth,  and  the  solitude  of  the  desert  was  at 
hand.  But  though  I acknowledged  not  a heaven,  I worshipped 
her  who  was  to  me  its  type  and  substitute.  If  at  any  moment  a 
single  thought  of  wrong  or  deceit  towards  one  so  sacred  arose  in  my 
mind,  one  look  from  her  innocent  eyes  averted  the  sacrilege.  Even 
passion  itself  felt  a holy  fear  in  her  presence,  like  the  flame  trem- 
bling in  the  breeze  of  the  sanctuary,  and  love,  pure  love,  stood  in 
place  of  religion. 


Thomas  Moore. 


5% 


As  long  as  I knew  not  her  story,  I could  indulge  at  least  in 
dreams  of  the  future.  But  now  what  expectation,  what  prospect 
remained  ? My  single  chance  of  happiness  lay  in  the  hope,  how- 
ever delusive,  of  being  able  to  divert  her  thoughts  from  the  fatal 
project  she  meditated,  of  weaning  her,  by  persuasion  and  argument, 
from  that  austere  faith  which  I had  before  hated  and  now  feared, 
and  of  attaching  her,  perhaps,  alone  and  unlinked  as  she  was  in  the 
world,  to  my  own  fortunes  for  ever. 

In  the  agitation  of  these  thoughts  I had  started  from  my  resting- 
place,  and  continued  to  pace  up  and  down,  under  a burning  sun, 
till,  exhausted  both  by  thought  and  feeling,  I sunk  down  amid  that 
blaze  of  light  into  a sleep,  which  to  my  fevered  brain  seemed  a sleep 
of  fire. 

On  awaking  I found  the  veil  of  Alethe  laid  carefully  over  my 
brow,  while  she  herself  sat  near  me,  under  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 
looking  anxiously  upon  that  leaf  which  her  mother  had  given  her, 
and  employed  apparently  in  comparing  its  outlines  with  the  course 
of  the  river,  as  well  as  with  the  forms  of  the  rocky  hills  by  which 
we  were  passing.  She  looked  pale  and  troubled,  and  rose  eagerly  to 
meet  me,  as  if  she  had  long  and  impatiently  waited  for  my  waking. 

Her  heart,  it  was  plain,  had  been  disturbed  from  its  security  and 
was  beginning  to  take  alarm  at  its  own  feelings.  But  though 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  peril  to  which  she  was  exposed,  her  reli- 
ance, as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  increased  with  her  danger,  and  upon 
me,  far  more  than  on  herself,  did  she  seem  to  depend  for  saving  her. 
To  reach  as  soon  as  possible  her  asylum  in  the  desert  was  now  the 
urgent  object  of  her  entreaties  and  wishes,  and  the  self-reproach 
which  she  expressed  at  having  for  a single  moment  suffered  her 
thoughts  to  be  diverted  from  this  sacred  purpose  not  only  revealed 
the  truth  that  she  had  forgotten  it,  but  betrayed  even  a glimmering 
consciousness  of  the  cause. 

Her  sleep,  she  said,  had  been  broken  by  ill-omened  dreams. 
Every  moment  the  shade  of  her  mother  had  stood  before  her,  re- 
buking, with  mournful  looks,  her  delay,  and  pointing,  as,  she  had 
done  in  death,  to  the  eastern  hills.  Bursting  into  tears  at  this 
accusing  recollection,  she  hastily  placed  the  leaf,  which  she  had 
been  examining,  in  my  hands,  and  implored  that  I would  ascertain, 
without  a moment’s  delay,  what  portion  of  our  voyage  was  still  un- 
performed, and  in  whai  space  of  time  we  might  hope  to  accom- 
plish it. 


590 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


I had,  still  less  than  herself,  taken  note  of  either  place  or  dis- 
tance, and,  could  we  have  been  left  to  glide  on  in  this  dream  of  hap- 
piness, should  never  have  thought  of  pausing  to  ask  where  it  would 
end.  But  such  confidence  was  far  too  sacred  to  be  deceived,  and, 
reluctant  as  I naturally  felt  to  enter  on  an  enquiry  which  might 
soon  dissipate  even  my  last  hope,  her  wish  was  sufficient  to  super- 
sede even  the  selfishness  of  love,  and  on  the  instant  I proceeded  to 
obey  her  will. 

There  stands  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Nile,  to  the  north  of  An- 
tinoe,  a high  and  steep  rock  impending  over  the  flood,  which  has 
borne  for  ages,  from  a prodigy  connected  with  it,  the  name  of  the 
Mountain  of  the  Birds.  Yearly,  it  is  said,  at  a certain  season  and 
hour,  large  flocks  of  birds  assemble  in  the  ravine  of  which  this 
rocky  mountain  forms  one  of  the  sides,  and  are  there  observed  to  go 
through  the  mysterious  ceremony  of  inserting  each  its  beak  into  a 
particular  cleft  of  the  rock,  till  the  cleft  closes  upon  one  of  their  num- 
ber, when  all  the  rest  of  the  birds  take  wing  and  leave  the  selected 
victim  to  die. 

Through  the  ravine  rendered  famous  by  this  charm — for  such 
the  multitude  consider  it — there  ran  in  ancient  times  a canal  from 
the  Nile  to  some  great  and  forgotten  city  now  buried  in  the  desert. 
To  a short  distance  from  the  river  this  canal  still  exists,  but  after 
having  passed  through  the  defile  its  scanty  waters  disappear  and  are 
wholly  lost  under  the  sands. 

It  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  place,  as  I could  collect  from 
the  delineations  on  the  leaf — where  a flight  of  birds  represented  the 
name  of  the  mountain — that  the  abode  of  the  solitary  to  whom  iUe- 
the  was  about  to  consign  herself  was  situated.  Little  as  I knew  of 
the  geography  of  Egypt,  it  at  once  struck  me  that  we  had  long  since 
left  this  mountain  behind,  and  on  enquiring  of  our  boatmen,  I found 
my  conjecture  confirmed.  We  had,  indeed,  passed  it  on  the  preceding 
night ; and  as  the  wind  had  been  ever  since  blowing  strongly  from 
the  north,  and  the  sun  was  already  sinking  towards  the  horizon,  we 
must  be  now  at  least  a day’s  sail  to  the  southward  of  the  spot. 

This  discovery,  I confess,  filled  my  heart  with  a feeling  of  joy 
which  I found  it  difficult  to  conceal.  It  seemed  as  if  fortune  was 
conspiring  with  love  in  my  behalf,  and  by  thus  delaying  the  mo- 
ment of  our  separation  afforded  me  a chance  at  least  of  happiness. 
Her  look  and  manner,  too,  when  informed  of  our  mistake,  rather 
encouraged  than  chilled  this  secret  hope.  In  the  first  moment  of 


Thomas  Moore. 


591 


astonishment  her  eyes  opened  upon  me  with  a suddenness  of  splen- 
dor under  which  I felt  my  own  wink  as  though  lightning  had 
crossed  them.  But  she  again,  as  suddenly,  let  their  lids  fall,  and, 
after  a quiver  of  her  lip,  which  showed  the  conflict  of  feeling  then 
going  on  within,  crossed  her  arms  upon  her  bosom  and  looked  down 
silently  upon  the  deck,  her  whole  countenance  sinking  into  an  ex- 
pression sad  but  resigned,  as  if  she  now  felt  that  fate  was  on  the 
side  of  wrong,  and  saw  love  already  stealing  between  her  soul  and 
heaven. 

I was  not  slow,  of  course,  in  availing  myself  of  what  I fancied  to 
be  the  irresolution  of  her  mind.  But  still  fearful  of  exciting  alarm 
by  any  appeal  to  feelings  of  regard  or  tenderness,  I but  addressed 
myself  to  her  imagination  and  to  that  love  of  novelty  and  wonders 
which  is  ever  ready  to  be  awakened  within  the  youthful  breast.  We 
were  now  approaching  that  region  of  miracles,  Thebes.  “ In  a day 
or  two,”  said  I,  “ we  shall  see  towering  above  the  waters  the  colos- 
sal Avenue  of  Sphinxes  and  the  bright  Obelisks  of  the  Sun.  We 
shall  visit  the  plain  of  Memnon  and  behold  those  mighty  statues 
that  fling  their  shadows  at  sunrise  over  the  Libyan  hills.  We  shall 
hear  the  image  of  the  Son  of  the  Morning  responding  to  the  first 
touch  of  light.  From  thence,  in  a few  hours,  a breeze  like  this  will 
transport  us  to  those  sunny  islands  near  the  cataracts,  there  to 
wander  among  the  sacred  palm-groves  of  Philse,  or  sit  at  noontide 
hour  in  those  cool  alcoves  which  the  waterfall  of  Syene  shadows 
under  its  arch.  Oh  ! who  is  there  that,  with  scenes  of  such  loveli- 
ness within  reach,  would  turn  coldly  away  to  the  bleak  desert  and 
leave  this  fair  world,  with  all  its  enchantments,  shining  unseen  and 
unenjoyed  ? At  least,”  I added,  taking  tenderly  her  hand  in  mine, 
“ let  a few  more  days  be  stolen  from  the  dreary  fate  to  which  thou 
hast  devoted  thyself,  and  then — ” ( 

She  had  heard  but  the  last  few  words,  the  rest  had  been  lost 
upon  her.  Startled  by  the  tone  of  tenderness  into  which,  in  spite 
of  all  my  resolves,  I had  suffered  my  voice  to  soften,  she  looked  for 
an  instant  with  passionate  earnestness  into  my  face,  then,  drop- 
ping upon  her  knees  with  her  clasped  hands  upraised,  exclaimed  : 
“ Tempt  me  not,  in  the  name  of  God  I implore  thee — tempt  me  not 
to  swerve  from  my  sacred  duty.  Oh  ! take  me  instantly  to  that 
desert  mountain,  and  I will  bless  thee  for  ever.” 

This  appeal,  I felt,  could  not  be  resisted,  even  though  my  heart 
were  to  break  for  it.  Having  silently  intimated  my  assent  to  her 


592 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


prayer  by  a slight  pressure  of  her  hand  as  I raised  her  from  the 
deck,  I proceeded  immediately,  as  we  were  still  in  full  career  for 
the  south,  to  give  orders  that  our  sail  should  be  instantly  lowered, 
and  not  a moment  lost  in  retracing  our  course. 

In  giving  these  directions,  however,  it  for  the  first  time  occurred 
to  me  that,  as  I had  hired  this  yacht  in  the  neighborhood  of  Mem- 
phis, where  it  was  probable  the  flight  of  the  young  priestess  would 
be  most  vigilantly  tracked,  we  should  run  the  risk  of  betraying  to 
the  boatmen  the  place  of  her  retreat,  and  there  was  now  a most  fa- 
vorable opportunity  for  taking  precautions  against  this  danger. 
Desiring,  therefore,  that  we  should  be  landed  at  a small  village  on 
the  shore,  under  pretence  of  paying  a visit  to  some  shrine  in  the 
neighborhood,  I there  dismissed  our  barge,  and  was  relieved  from 
fear  of  further  observation  by  seeing  it  again  set  sail,  and  resume 
its  course  fleetly  up  the  current. 

From  the  boat§  of  all  descriptions  that  lay  idle  beside  the  bank,  I 
now  selected  one  in  every  respect  suited  to  my  purpose,  being,  in 
its  shape  and  accommodations,  a miniature  of  our  former  vessel, 
but  at  the  same  time  so  light  and  small  as  to  be  manageable  by  my- 
self alone,  and  requiring,  with  the  advantage  of  the  current,  little 
more  than  a hand  to  steer  it.  This  boat  I succeeded  without  much 
difficulty  in  purchasing,  and  after  a short  delay  we  were  again  afloat 
down  the  current,  the  sun  just  then  sinking  in  conscious  glory  over 
his  own  golden  shrines  in  the  Libyan  waste. 

The  evening  was  calmer  and  more  lovely  than  any  that  had  yet 
smiled  upon  our  voyage,  and  as  we  left  the  shore  a strain  of  sweet 
melody  came  soothingly  over  our  ears.  It  was  the  voice  of  a young 
Nubian  girl,  whom  we  saw  kneeling  before  an  acacia  upon  the  bank, 
and  singing,  while  her  companions  stood  around,  the  wild  song  of 
invocation,  which  in  her  country  they  address  to  that  enchanted 
tree  : 

“ 0 Abyssinian  tree  1 
We  pray,  we  pray  to  thee  ; 

By  the  glow  of  thy  golden  fruit, 

And  the  violet  hue  of  thy  flower, 

And  the  greeting  mute 
Of  thy  bough’s  salute 
To  the  stranger  who  seeks  thy  bower.39 


80  See  an  account  of  this  sensitive  tree,  which  bends  down  its  branches  to  those  who 
approach  it,  in  M.  Jomard’s  “Description  of  Syene  and  the  Cataracts.” 


Thomas  Moore . 


593 


“ 0 Abyssinian  tree  1 
How  the  traveller  blesses  thee 
When  the  night  no  moon  allows, 

And  the  sunset  hour  is  near, 

And  thou  bend’st  thy  boughs 
To  kiss  his  brows, 

Saying,  ‘ Come,  rest  thee  here  ’ ! 

0 Abyssinian  tree  ! 

Thus  bow  thy  head  to  me.” 

In  tlie  burden  of  this  song  the  companions  of  the  young  Nubian 
joined,  and  we  heard  the  words,  “0  Abyssinian  tree!”  dying 
away  on  the  breeze  long  after  the  whole  group  had  been  lost  to  our 
eyes. 

Whether  in  the  new  arrangement  which  I had  made  for  our  voy- 
age any  motive  besides  those  which  I professed  had  a share  I can 
scarcely  even  myself,  so  bewildered  were  then  my  feelings,  deter- 
mine. But  no  sooner  had  the  current  borne  us  away  from  all 
human  dwellings,  and  we  were  alone  on  the  waters,  with  not  a soul 
near,  than  I felt  how  closely  such  solitude  draws  hearts  together, 
and  how  much  more  we  seemed  to  belong  to  each  other  than  when 
there  were  eyes  around  us. 

The  same  feeling,  but  without  the  same  sense  of  its  danger,  was 
manifest  in  every  look  and  word  of  Alethe.  The  consciousness  of 
the  one  great  effort  which  she  had  made  appeared  to  have  satisfied 
her  heart  on  the  score  of  duty,  while  the  devotedness  with  which 
she  saw  I attended  to  her  every  wish  was  felt  with  all  that  trusting 
gratitude  which  in  woman  is  the  day-spring  of  love.  She  was, 
therefore,  happy,  innocently  happy,  and  the  confiding  and  even  af- 
fectionate unreserve  of  her  manner,  while  it  rendered  my  trust 
more  sacred,  made  it  also  far  more  difficult. 

It  was  only,  however,  upon  subjects  unconnected  with  our  situa- 
tion or  fate  that  she  yielded  to  such  interchange  of  thought,  or  that 
her  voice  ventured  to  answer  mine.  The  moment  I alluded  to  the 
destiny  that  awaited  us  all  her  cheerfulness  fled,  and  she  became 
saddened  and  silent.  When  I described  to  her  the  beauty  of  my 
own  native  land,  its  founts  of  inspiration  and  fields  of  glory,  her 
eyes  sparkled  with  sympathy,  and  sometimes  even  softened  into 
fondness.  But  when  I ventured  to  whisper  that  in  that  glorious 
country  a life  full  of  love  and  liberty  awaited  her ; when  I pro- 
ceeded to  contrast  the  adoration  and  bliss  she  might  command  with 


594 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


the  gloomy  austerities  of  the  life  to  which  she  was  hastening,  it 
was  like  the  coming  of  a sudden  cloud  over  a summer  sky.  Her 
head  sunk  as  she  listened,  I waited  in  vain  for  an  answer,  and  when, 
half  playfully  reproaching  her  for  this  silence,  I stooped  to  take  her 
hand,  I could  feel  the  warm  tears  fast  falling  over  it. 

But  even  this,  feeble  as  was  the  hope  it  held  out,  was  still  a 
glimpse  of  happiness.  Though  it  foreboded  that  I should  lose  her, 
it  also  whispered  that  I was  loved.  Like  that  lake  in  the  land  of 
roses  whose  waters  are  half  sweet,  half  bitter,  I felt  my  fate  to  be 
a compound  of  bliss  and  pain,  but  its  very  pain  well  worth  all  ordi- 
nary bliss. 

And  thus  did  the  hours  of  that  night  pass  along,  while  every  mo- 
ment shortened  our  happy  dream,  and  the  current  seemed  to  flow 
with  a swifter  pace  than  any  that  ever  yet  hurried  to  the  sea.  Not 
a feature  of  the  whole  scene  but  lives  at  this  moment  freshly  in 
my  memory — the  broken  starlight  on  the  water,  the  rippling  sound 
of  the  boat  as,  without  oar  or  sail,  it  went,  like  a thing  of  enchant- 
ment, down  the  stream;  the  scented  fire,  burning  beside  us  upon 
the  deck  ; and  then  that  face  on  which  its  light  fell,  revealing  at 
every  moment  some  new  charm,  some  blush  or  look  more  beautiful 
than  the  last. 

Often  while  I sat  gazing,  forgetful  of  all  else  in  this  world,  our 
boat,  left  wholly  to  itself,  would  drive  from  its  course,  and,  bearing 
us  away  to  the  bank,  get  entangled  in  the  water-flowers  or  be  caught 
in  some  eddy  ere  I perceived  where  we  were.  Once,  too,  when  the 
rustling  of  my  oar  among  the  flowers  had  startled  away  from  the 
bank  some  wild  antelopes  that  had  stolen  at  that  still  hour  to  drink 
of  the  Nile,  what  an  emblem  did  I think  it  of  the  young  heart  then 
beside  me,  tasting  for  the  first  time  of  hope  and  love,  and  so  soon, 
alas  ! to  be  scared  from  their  sweetness  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  night  was  now  far  advanced ; the  bend  of  our  course 
towards  the  left  and  the  closing  in  of  the  eastern  hills  upon  the 
river  gave  warning  of  our  approach  to  the  hermit’s  dwelling. 
Every  minute  now  appeared  like  the  last  of  existence,  and  I felt  a 
sinking  of  despair  at  my  heart  which  would  have  been  intolerable 
had  not  a resolution  that  suddenly,  and  as  if  by  inspiration,  oc- 


Thomas  Moore . 


595 


curred  to  me,  presented  a glimpse  of  hope,  which,  in  some  degree, 
calmed  my  feelings. 

Much  as  I had,  all  my  life,  despised  hypocrisy — the  very  sect  I 
had  embraced  being  chiefly  recommended  to  me  by  the  war  they 
continued  to  wage  upon  the  cant  of  all  others — it  was,  nevertheless, 
in  hypocrisy  that  I now  scrupled  not  to  take  refuge  from  that 
calamity  which  to  me  was  far  worse  than  either  shame  or  death — 
my  separation  from  Alethe.  In  my  despair  I adopted  the  humili- 
ating plan — deeply  humiliating,  as  I felt  it  to  be,  even  amid  the 
joy  with  which  I welcomed  it — of  offering  myself  to  this  hermit 
as  a convert  to  his  faith,  and  thus  becoming  the  fellow-disciple  of 
Alethe  under  his  care  ! 

From  the  moment  I resolved  upon  this  plan  my  spirit  felt 
lightened.  Though  having  fully  before  my  eyes  the  mean  labyrinth 
of  imposture  into  which  it  would  lead  me,  I thought  of  nothing 
but  the  chance  of  our  continuing  still  together.  In  this  hope  all 
pride,  all  philosophy  was  forgotten,  and  everything  seemed  tolerable 
but  the  prospect  of  losing  her. 

Thus  resolved,  it  was  with  somewhat  less  reluctant  feelings  that  I 
now  undertook,  at  the  anxious  desire  of  my  companion,  to  ascer- 
tain the  site  of  that  well-known  mountain  in  the  neighborhood  of 
which  the  anchoret’s  dwelling  lay.  We  had  already  passed  one  or 
two  stupendous  rocks,  which  stood  detached  like  fortresses  over  the 
river’s  brink,  and  which  in  some  degree  corresponded  with  the 
description  on  the  leaf.  So  little  was  there  of  life  now  stirring 
along  the  shores  that  I had  begun  almost  to  despair  of  any  assistance 
from  enquiry,  when,  on  looking  to  the  western  bank,  I saw  a boat- 
man among  the  sedges,  towing  his  small  boat  with  some  difficulty  up 
the  current.  Hailing  him  as  we  passed,  I asked : “ Where  stands 
the  Mountain  of  the  Birds  ?”  And  he  had  hardly  time,  as  he  pointed 
above  us,  to  answer  “There,”  when  we  perceived  that  we  were  just 
then  entering  into  the  shadow  which  this  mighty  rock  flings  across 
the  whole  of  the  flood. 

In  a few  moments  we  had  reached  the  mouth  of  the  ravine  of 
which  the  Mountain  of  the  Birds  forms  one  of  the  sides,  and 
through  which  the  scanty  canal  of  the  Nile  flows.  At  the  sight  of 
this  awful  chasm,  within  some  of  whose  dreary  recesses  (if  we  had 
rightly  interpreted  the  leaf)  the  dwelling  of  the  solitary  was  to  be 
found,  our  voices  sunk  at  once  into  a low  whisper,  while  Alethe 
turned  round  to  me  with  a look  of  awe  and  eagerness,  as  if  doubt- 


596  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

ful  whether  I had  not  already  disappeared  from  her  side.  A quick 
movement,  however,  of  her  hand  towards  the  ravine  told  too  plainly 
that  her  purpose  was  still  unchanged.  Immediately  checking, 
therefore,  with  my  oars  the  career  of  our  boat,  I succeeded,  after 
no  small  exertion,  in  turning  it  out  of  the  current  of  the  river,  and 
steering  into  this  bleak  and  stagnant  canal. 

Our  transition  from  life  and  bloom  to  the  very  depth  of  desola- 
tion was  immediate.  While  the  water  on  one  side  of  the  ravine 
lay  buried  in  shadow,  the  white,  skeleton-like  crags  of  the  other 
stood  aloft  in  the  pale  glare  of  moonlight.  The  sluggish  stream 
through  which  we  moved  yielded  sullenly  to  the  oar,  and  the  shriek 
of  a few  water-birds,  which  we  had  roused  from  their  fastnesses, 
was  succeeded  by  a silence  so  dead  and  awful  that  our  lips  seemed 
afraid  to  disturb  it  by  a breath,  and  half- whispered  exclamations, 
“How  dreary!”  “How  dismal!”  were  almost  the  only  words 
exchanged  between  us. 

We  had  proceeded  for  some  time  through  this  gloomy  defile, 
when,  at  a short  distance  before  us,  among  the  rocks  upon  which 
the  moonlight  fell,  we  could  perceive,  on  a ledge  elevated  but  a 
little  above  the  canal,  a small  hut  or  cave,  which,  from  a tree  or 
two  planted  around  it,  had  some  appearance  of  being  the  abode  of 
a human  being.  “This,  then,”  thought  I,  “is  the  home  to  which 
she  is  destined  ! ” A chill  of  despair  came  again  over  my  heart, 
and  the  oars,  as  I sat  gazing,  lay  motionless  in  my  hands. 

I found  Alethe,  too,  whose  eyes  had  caught  the  same  object, 
drawing  closer  to  my  side  than  she  had  yet  ventured.  Laying  her 
hand  agitatedly  upon  mine,  “We  must  here,”  said  she,  “part  for 
ever.”  I turned  to  her  as  she  spoke;  there  was  a tenderness,  a 
despondency,  in  her  countenance  that  at  once  saddened  and  in- 
flamed my  soul.  “Part!”  I exclaimed,  passionately.  “No;  the 
same  God  shall  receive  us  both.  Thy  faith,  Alethe,  shall  from  this 
hour  be  mine,  and  I will  live  and  die  in  this  desert  with  thee  ! ” 

Her  surprise,  her  delight,  at  these  words  was  like  a momentary 
delirium.  The  wild,  anxious  smile  with  which  she  looked  into  my 
face,  as  if  to  ascertain  whether  she  had  indeed  heard  my  words 
aright,  bespoke  a happiness  too  much  for  reason  to  bear.  At  length 
the  fulness  of  her  heart  found  relief  in  tears,  and,  murmuring 
forth  an  incoherent  blessing  on  my  name,  she  let  her  head  fall 
languidly  and  powerlessly  on  my  arm.  The  light  from  my  boat- 
fire  shone  upon  her  face.  I saw  her  eyes,  which  she  had  closed  for 


Thomas  Moore . 


597 


a moment,  again  opening  upon  me  with  the  same  tenderness,  and — 
merciful  Providence,  how  I remember  that  moment  ! — was  on  the 
point  of  bending  down  my  lips  towards  hers  when  suddenly,  in  the 
air  above  us,  as  if  coming  direct  from  heaven,  there  burst  forth  a 
strain  of  choral  music  that  with  its  solemn  sweetness  filled  the 
whole  valley. 

Breaking  away  from  my  caress  at  these  supernatural  sounds,  the 
maiden  threw  herself  trembling  upon  her  knees,  and,  not  daring  to 
look  up,  exclaimed  wildly,  “ My  mother,  oh  ! my  mother.” 

It  was  the  Christian’s  morning  hymn  that  we  heard — the  same, 
as  I learned  afterwards,  that,  on  their  high  terrace  at  Memphis,  she 
had  been  taught  by  her  mother  to  sing  to  the  rising  sun. 

Scarcely  less  startled  than  my  companion,  I looked  up,  and  saw 
at  the  very  summit  of  the  rock  above  us  a light,  appearing  to  come 
from  a small  opening  or  window,  through  which  those  sounds  like- 
wise that  had  appeared  to  me  so  supernatural  issued.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  that  we  had  now  found,  if  not  the  dwelling  of  the  an- 
choret, at  least  the  haunt  of  some  of  the  Christian  brotherhood  of 
these  rocks,  by  whose  assistance  we  could  not  fail  to  find  the  place 
of  his  retreat. 

The  agitation  into  which  Alethe  had  been  thrown  by  the  first 
burst  of  that  psalmody  soon  yielded  to  the  softening  recollections 
which  it  brought  back,  and  a calm  came  over  her  brow  such  as  it 
had  never  before  worn  since  we  met.  She  seemed  to  feel  as  if  she 
had  now  reached  her  destined  haven,  and  hailed  as  the  voice  of 
heaven  itself  those  solemn  sounds  by  which  she  was  welcomed  to  it. 

In  her  tranquillity,  however,  I was  very  far  from  yet  sympathiz- 
ing. Full  of  impatience  to  learn  all  that  awaited  her  as  well  as  my- 
self, I pushed  our  boat  close  to  the  base  of  the  rock,  so  as  to  bring 
it  directly  under  that  lighted  window  on  the  summit,  to  explore  my 
way  up  to  which  was  now  my  immediate  object.  Having  hastily 
received  my  instructions  from  Alethe  and  made  her  repeat  again  the 
name  of  the  Christian  whom  we  sought,  I sprang  upon  the  bank 
and  was  not  long  in  discovering  a sort  of  path  or  stairway  cut  rudely 
out  of  the  rock,  and  leading,  as  I found,  by  easy  windings  up  the 
steep. 

After  ascending  for  some  time,  I arrived  at  a level  space  or  ledge 
which  the  hand  of  labor  had  succeeded  in  converting  into  a garden,91 

31  The  monks  of  Mount  Sinai  (Shaw  says)  have  covered  over  near  four  acres  of  the 
naked  rocks  with  fruitful  gardens  and  orchards. 


598 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


and  wliicli  was  planted  here  and  there  with  fig-trees  and  palms. 
Around  it,  too,  I could  perceive  through  the  glimmering  light  a 
number  of  small  caves  or  grottos,  into  some  of  which  human  beings 
might  find  an  entrance,  while  others  appeared  of  no  larger  dimen- 
sions than  those  tombs  of  the  sacred  birds  which  are  seen  ranged 
around  Lake  Moeris. 

I was  still,  I found,  but  half-way  up  the  ascent,  nor  was  there 
visible  any  further  means  of  continuing  my  course,  as  the  mountain 
from  hence  rose,  almost  perpendicularly,  like  a wall.  At  length, 
however,  on  exploring  more  closely,  I discovered  behind  the  shade 
of  a fig-tree  a large  ladder  of  wood  resting  firmly  against  the  rock, 
and  affording  an  easy  and  safe  ascent  up  the  steep. 

Having  ascertained  thus  far,  I again  descended  to  the  boat  for 
Alethe,  whom  I found  trembling  already  at  her  short  solitude,  and 
having  led  her  up  the  stairway  to  this  quiet  garden,  left  her  lodged 
there  securely  amid  its  holy  science  while  I pursued  my  way  upward 
to  the  light  upon  the  rock. 

At  the  top  of  the  long  ladder  I found  myself  on  another  ledge  or 
platform,  somewhat  smaller  than  the  first,  but  planted  in  the  same 
manner  with  trees,  and,  as  I could  perceive  by  the  mingled  light  of 
morning  and  the  moon,  embellished  with  flowers.  I was  now  near 
the  summit ; there  remained  another  short  ascent,  and,  as  a 
ladder  against  the  rock  supplied,  as  before,  the  means  of  scaling  it, 
I was  in  a few  minutes  at  the  opening  from  which  the  light  issued. 

I had  ascended  gently,  as  well  from  a feeling  of  awe  at  the  whole 
scene  as  from  an  unwillingness  to  disturb  rudely  the  rites  on  which 
I intruded.  My  approach,  therefore,  being  unheard,  an  opportu- 
nity was  for  some  moments  afforded  me  of  observing  the  group  within 
before  my  appearance  at  the  window  was  discovered. 

In  the  middle  of  the  apartment,  which  seemed  to  have  been  once 
a pagan  oratory,  there  was  collected  an  assembly  of  about  seven  or 
eight  persons,  some  male,  some  female,  kneeling  in  silence  round  a 
small  altar,  while  among  them,  as  if  presiding  over  their  solemn 
ceremony,  stood  an  aged  man,  who,  at  the  moment  of  my  arrival, 
was  presenting  to  one  of  the  female  worshippers  an  alabaster  cup, 
which  she  applied,  with  profound  reverence,  to  her  lips.  The 
venerable  countenance  of  the  minister,  as  he  pronounced  a short 
prayer  over  her  head,  wore  an  expression  of  profound  feeling  that 
showed  how  wholly  he  was  absorbed  in  that  rite ; and  when  she  had 
drank  of  the  cup — which  I saw  had  engraven  on  its  side  the  image 


Thomas  Moore. 


599 


of  a head  32  with  a glory  round  it — the  holy  man  bent  down  and 
kissed  her  forehead. 33 

After  this  parting  salutation,  the  whole  group  rose  silently  from 
their  knees,  and  it  was  then  for  the  first  time  that,  by  a cry  of  ter- 
ror from  one  of  the  women,  the  appearance  of  a stranger  at  the 
window  was  discovered.  The  whole  assembly  seemed  startled  and 
alarmed  except  him,  that  superior  person,  who,  advancing  from  the 
altar  with  an  unmoved  look,  raised  the  latch  of  the  door  adjoining 
to  the  window  and  admitted  me. 

There  was  in  this  old  man’s  features  a mixture  of  elevation  and 
sweetness,  of  simplicity  and  energy,  which  commanded  at  once  at- 
tachment and  homage ; and  half  hoping,  half  fearing,  to  find  in 
him  the  destined  guardian  of  Alethe,  I looked  anxiously  in  his  face 
as  I entered  and  pronounced  the  name  “ Melanius.”  “Melanius 
is  my  name,  young  stranger,”  he  answered,  “ and,  whether  in 
friendship  or  in  enmity  thou  comest,  Melanius  blesses  thee.”  Thus 
saying,  he  made  a sign  with  his  right  hand  above  my  head,  while, 
with  involuntary  respect,  I bowed  beneath  the  benediction. 

“ Let  this  volume,”  I replied,  “ answer  for  the  peacefulness  of  my 
mission,”  at  the  same  time  placing  in  his  hands  the  copy  of  the 
Scriptures  which  had  been  his  own  gift  to  the  mother  of  Alethe,  and 
which  her  child  now  brought  as  the  credential  of  her  claims  on  his 
protection.  At  the  sight  of  this  sacred  pledge,  which  he  instantly 
recognized,  the  solemnity  that  had  at  first  marked  his  reception  of 
me  softened  into  tenderness.  Thoughts  of  other  times  appeared  to 
pass  through  his  mind,  and  as,  with  a sigh  of  recollection,  he  took 
the  book  from  my  hands,  some  words  on  the  outer  leaf  caught  his 
eye.  They  were  few,  but  contained  most  probably  the  last  wishes  of 
the  dying  Theora,  for,  as  he  read  them  over  eagerly,  I saw  tears  in 
his  aged  eyes.  “ The  trust,”  he  said  with  faltering  voice,  “is  pre- 
cious and  sacred,  and  God  will  enable,  I hope,  his  servant  to  guard 
it  faithfully.” 

During  this  short  dialogue  the  other  persons  of  the  assembly  had 
departed,  being,  as  I afterwards  learned,  brethren  from  the  neigh- 
boring bank  of  the  Nile,  who  came  thus  secretly  before  daybreak  to 
join  in  worshipping  their  God.  Fearful  lest  their  descent  down  the 

32  There  was  usually,  Tertullian  tells  us,  the  image  of  Christ  on  the  chalices. 

93  “ We  are  rather  disposed  to  infer,”  says  the  late  Bishop  of  Lincoln  in  his  very  sensi- 
ble work  on  Tertullian,  “that  at  the  conclusion  of  all  their  meetings  for  the  purpose  of 
devotion  the  early  Christians  were  accustomed  to  give  the  kiss  of  peace  in  token  of  the 
brotherly  love  subsisting  between  them.” 


6oo 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


rock  might  alarm  Alethe,  I hurried  briefly  over  the  few  words  of 
explanation  that  remained,  and,  leaving  the  venerable  Christian  to 
follow  at  his  leisure,  hastened  anxiously  to  rejoin  the  young  maiden. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

Melanius  was  one  of  the  first  of  those  zealous  Christians  of 
Egypt  who,  following  the  recent  example  of  the  hermit,  Paul,  bade 
farewell  to  all  the  comforts  of  social  existence,  and  betook  them- 
selves to  a life  of  contemplation  in  the  desert.  Less  selfish,  how- 
ever, in  his  piety  than  most  of  these  ascetics,  Melanius  forgot  not 
the  world  in  leaving  it.  He  knew  that  man  was  not  born  to  live 
wholly  for  himself,  that  his  relation  to  human  kind  was  that  of  the 
link  to  the  chain,  and  that  even  his  solitude  should  be  turned  to  the 
advantage  of  others.  In  flying,  therefore,  from  the  din  and  distur- 
bance of  life,  he  sought  not  to  place  himself  beyond  the  reach  of  its 
sympathies,  but  selected  a retreat  where  he  could  combine  all  the 
advantages  of  solitude  with  those  opportunities  of  being  useful  to 
his  fellow-men  which  a neighborhood  to  their  populous  haunts 
would  afford. 

That  taste  for  the  gloom  of  subterranean  recesses  which  the 
race  of  Misraim  inherit  from  their  Ethiopian  ancestors  had,  by 
hollowing  out  all  Egypt  into  caverns  and  crypts,  supplied  these 
Christian  anchorets  with  an  ample  choice  of  retreats.  Accordingly, 
some  found  a shelter  in  the  grottos  of  Elethya,  others  among  the 
royal  tombs  of  the  Thebaid.  In  the  middle  of  the  Seven  Valleys, 
where  the  sun  rarely  shines,  a few  have  fixed  their  dim  and  melan- 
choly retreat,  while  others  have  sought  the  neighborhood  of  the 
red  lakes  of  Nitria,  and  there,  like  those  pagan  solitaries  of  old 
who  fixed  their  dwelling  among  the  palm-trees  near  the  Dead  Sea, 
pass  their  whole  lives  in  musing  amidst  the  sterility  of  nature,  and 
. seem  to  find  in  her  desolation  peace. 

It  was  one  of  the  mountains  of  the  Said,  to  the  east  of:  the  river, 
that  Melanius,  as  we  have  seen,  chose  his  place  of  seclusion,  having 
. all  the  life  and  fertility  of  the  Nile  on  one  side  and  the  lone,  dis- 
mal barrenness  of  the  desert  on  the  other.  Half-way  down  this 
mountain,  where  it  impends  over  the  ravine,  he  found  a series  of 
caves  or  grottos  dug  out  of  the  rock,  which  had  in  other  times 
ministered  to  some  purpose  of  mystery,  but  whose  use  had  long  been 
forgotten  and  their  recesses  abandoned. 

To  this  place,  after  the  banishment  of  this  great  master,  Origen, 


Thomas  Moore. 


601 


Melanias  with  a few  faithful  followers  retired,  and  there,  by  the 
example  of  his  innocent  life  as  well  as  by  his  fervid  eloquence,  suc- 
ceeded in  winning  crowds  of  converts  to  his  faith.  Placed  as  he  was 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  rich  city,  Antinoe,  though  he  mingled 
not  with  its  multitude,  his  name  and  his  fame  were  ever  among 
them,  and  to  all  who  sought  after  instruction  or  consolation  the 
cell  of  the  hermit  was  always  open. 

Notwithstanding  the  rigid  abstinence  of  his  own  habits,  he  was 
yet  careful  to  provide  for  the  comforts  of  others.  Content  with  a 
rude  pallet  of  straw  himself,  he  had  always  for  the  stranger  a less 
homely  resting-place.  From  his  grotto  the  wayfaring  and  the  in- 
digent never  went  unrefreshed,  and  with  the  aid  of  some  of  his 
brethren  he  had  formed  gardens  along  the  ledges  of  the  mountain, 
which  gave  an  air  of  life  and  cheerfulness  to  his  rocky  dwelling,  and 
supplied  him  with  the  chief  necessaries  of  such  a climate — fruit  and 
shade. 

Though  the  acquaintance  he  had  formed  with  the  mother  of 
Alethe  during  the  short  period  of  her  attendance  at  the  school  of 
Origen  was  soon  interrupted  and  never  afterwards  renewed,  the  in- 
terest which  he  had  then  taken  in  her  fate  was  far  too  lively  to  be 
forgotten.  He  had  seen  the  zeal  with  which  her  young  heart  wel- 
comed instruction,  and  the  thought  that  so  promising  a candidate 
for  heaven  should  have  relapsed  into  idolatry  came  often  with  dis- 
quieting apprehension  over  his  mind. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  true  pleasure  that,  but  a year  or  two  be- 
fore Theora’s  death,  he  had  learned  by  a private  communication 
from  her,  transmitted  through  a Christian  embalmer  of  Memphis, 
that  “not  only  had  her  own  heart  taken  root  in  the  faith,  but  that 
a new  bud  had  flowered  with  the  same  divine  hope,  and  that  ere 
long  he  might  see  them  both  transplanted  to  the  desert.” 

The  coming,  therefore,  of  Alethe  was  far  less  a surprise  to  him 
than  her  coming  thus  alone  was  a shock  and  a sorrow,  and  the  silence 
of  their  first  meeting  showed  how  painfully  both  remembered  that 
the  tie  which  had  brought  them  together  was  no  longer  of  this 
world,  that  the  hand  which  should  have  been  then  joined  with  theirs 
was  mouldering  in  the  tomb.  I now  saw  that  even  religion  like  his 
was  not  proof  against  the  sadness  of  mortality.  For,  as  the  old  man 
put  aside  the  ringlets  from  her  forehead,  and  contemplated  in  that 
clear  countenance  the  reflection  of  what  her  mother  had  been,  there 
mingled  a mournfulness  with  his  piety  as  he  said,  “ Heaven  rest  her 


602  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

soul ! ” which  showed  how  little  even  the  certainty  of  a heaven  for 
those  we  love  can  reconcile  us  to  the  pain  of  having  lost  them  on 
earth. 

The  full  light  of  day  had  now  risen  upon  the  desert,  and  our  host, 
reminded  by  the  faint  looks  of  Alethe  of  the  many  anxious  hours  we 
had  passed  without  sleep,  proposed  that  we  should  seek,  in  the 
chambers  of  the  rock,  such  rest  as  a hermit’s  dwelling  could  offer. 
Pointing  to  one  of  the  largest  of  these  openings,  as  he  addressed 
me,  “Thou  wilt  find,”  he  said,  “in  that  grotto  abed  of  fresh 
doom-leaves,  and  may  the  consciousness  of  having  protected  the 
orphan  sweeten  thy  sleep  ! ” 

I felt  how  dearly  this  praise  had  been  earned,  and  already  almost 
repented  of  having  deserved  it.  There  was  a sadness  in  the  counte- 
nance of  Alethe  as  I took  leave  of  her  to  which  the  forebodings  of 
my  own  heart  but  too  faithfully  responded  ; nor  could  I help  fear- 
ing, as  her  hand  parted  lingeringly  from  mine,  that  I had,  by  this 
sacrifice,  placed  her  beyond  my  reach  for  ever. 

Having  lighted  for  me  a lamp,  which  in  these  recesses  even  at 
noon  is  necessary,  the  holy  man  led  me  to  the  entrance  of  the 
grotto.  And  here,  I blush  to  say,  my  career  of  hypocrisy  began. 
With  the  sole  view  of  obtaining  another  glance  at  Alethe,  I turned 
humbly  to  solicit  the  benediction  of  the  Christian,  and  having  con- 
veyed to  her,  while  bending  reverently  down,  as  much  of  the  deep 
feeling  of  my  soul  as  looks  could  express,  I then,  with  a desponding 
spirit,  hurried  into  the  cavern. 

A short  passage  led  me  to  the  chamber  within,  the  walls  of  which 
I found  covered,  like  those  of  the  grottos  of  Lycopolis,  with  paint- 
ings,  which,  though  executed  long  ages  ago,  looked  as  fresh  as  if 
their  colors  were  but  laid  on  yesterday.  They  were  all  of  them 
representations  of  rural  and  domestic  scenes,  and,  in  the  greater 
number,  the  melancholy  imagination  of  the  artist  had  called  in,  as 
usual,  the  presence  of  Death,  to  throw  his  shadow  over  the  pic- 
ture. 

My  attention  was  particularly  drawn  to  one  series  of  subjects, 
throughout  the  whole  of  which  the  same  group — consisting  of  a 
youth,  a maiden,  and  two  aged  persons,  who  appeared  to  be  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  girl — were  represented  in  all  the  details 
of  their  daily  life.  The  looks  and  attitudes  of  the  young  people 
denoted  that  they  were  lovers ; and  sometimes  they  were  seen 
sitting  under  a canopy  of  flowers  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  each 


Thomas  Moore. 


603 

other’s  faces  as  though  they  could  never  look  away ; sometimes 
they  appeared  walking  along  the  banks  of  the  Nile — 

....  on  one  of  those  sweet  nights 
When  Isis,  the  pure  star  of  lovers,  lights 
Her  bridal  crescent  o’er  the  holy  stream  ; 

When  wandering  youths  and  maidens  watch  ner  beam, 

And  number  o’er  the  nights  she  hath  to  run 
Ere  she  again  embrace  her  bridegroom  sun. 

Through  all  these  scenes  of  endearment  the  two  elder  persons 
stood  by,  their  calm  countenances  touched  with  a share  of  that  bliss 
in  whose  perfect  light  the  young  lovers  were  basking.  Thus  far  all 
was  happiness,  but  the  sad  lesson  of  mortality  was  yet  to  come.  In 
the  last  picture  of  the  series  one  of  the  figures  was  missing.  It  was 
that  of  the  young  maiden,  who  had  disappeared  from  among  them. 
On  the  brink  of  a dark  lake  stood  the  three  who  remained,  while  a 
boat  just  departing  for  the  City  of  the  Dead  told  too  plainly  the  end 
of  their  dream  of  happiness. 

This  memorial  of  a sorrow  of  other  times — of  a sorrow  ancient 
as  death  itself — was  not  wanting  to  deepen  the  melancholy  of  my 
mind,  or  to  add  to  the  weight  of  the  many  bodings  that  pressed 
upon  it. 

After  a night,  as  it  seemed,  of  anxious  and  unsleeping  thought, 
I rose  from  my  bed  and  returned  to  the  garden.  I found  the  Chris- 
tian alone,  seated,  under  the  shade  of  one  of  his  trees,  at  a small 
table,  on  which  there  lay  a volume  unrolled,  while  a beautiful  ante- 
lope was  sleeping  at  his  feet.  Struck  by  the  contrast  which  he  pre- 
sented to  those  haughty  priests  whom  I had  seen  surrounded  by  the 
pomp  and  gorgeousness  of  temples,  “ Is  this,  then,”  thought  I,  “ the 
faith  before  which  the  world  now  trembles,  its  temple  the  desert, 
its  treasury  a book,  and  its  high-priest  the  solitary  dweller  of  the 
rock  ? ” 

He  had  prepared  for  me  a simple,  but  hospitable  repast,  of 
which  fruits  from  his  own  garden,  the  white  bread  of  Olyra,  and 
the  juice  of  the  honey-cane  formed  the  most  costly  luxuries.  His 
manner  to  me  was  even  more  cordial  and  fatherly  than  before; 
but  the  absence  of  Alethe,  and,  still  more,  the  ominous  reserve 
with  which  he  not  only  himself  refrained  from  all  mention  of  her 
name,  but  eluded  the  few  enquiries  by  which  I sought  to  lead  to  it, 
seemed  to  confirm  all  the  apprehensions  I had  felt  in  parting  from 
her. 


604  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

She  head  acquainted  him,  it  was  evident,  with  the  whole  history 
of  our  flight.  My  reputation  as  a philosopher,  my  desire  to  become 
a Christian,  all  was  already  known  to  the  zealous  anchoret,  and  the 
subject  of  my  conversion  was  the  very  first  on  which  he  entered. 
0 pride  of  philosophy  ! how  wert  thou  then  humbled,  and  with 
what  shame  did  I stand  in  the  presence  of  that  venerable  man,  not 
daring  to  let  my  eyes  encounter  his,  while,  with  unhesitating  trust 
in  the  sincerity  of  my  intention,  he  welcomed  me  to  a participation 
of  his  holy  hope,  and  imprinted  the  kiss  of  charity  on  my  infidel 
brow  ! 

Embarrassed  as  I could  not  but  feel  by  the  humiliating  conscious- 
ness of  hypocrisy,  I was  even  still  more  perplexed  by  my  almost 
total  ignorance  of  the  real  tenets  of  the  faith  to  which  I professed 
myself  a convert.  Abashed  and  confused,  and  with  a heart  sick  at 
its  own  deceit,  I listened  to  the  animated  and  eloquent  gratulations 
of  the  Christian  as  though  they  were  words  in  a dream  without 
any  link  or  meaning,  nor  could  disguise  but  by  the  mockery  of  a 
reverent  bow  at  every  pause  the  total  want  of  self-possession,  and 
even  of  speech,  under  which  I labored. 

A few  minutes  more  of  such  trial,  and  I must  have  avowed  my 
imposture.  But  the  holy  man  perceived  my  embarrassment,  and 
whether  mistaking  it  for  awe  or  knowing  it  to  be  ignorance,  relieved 
me  from  my  perplexity  by  at  once  changing  the  theme.  Having 
gently  awakened  his  antelope  from  its  sleep,  “ You  have  doubtless,” 
he  said,  “heard  of  my  brother-anchoret,  Paul,  who  from  his  cave 
in  the  marble  mountains  near  the  Red  Sea  sends  hourly  the 
blessed  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving  ’ to  heaven.  Of  Ms  walks,  they 
tell  me,  a lion  is  the  companion ; 34  but  for  me,”  he  added  with  a 
playful  and  significant  smile,  ‘ e who  try  my  powers  of  taming  but 
on  the  gentler  animals,  this  feeble  child  of  the  desert  is  a far  fitter 
playmate.”  Then  taking  his  staff,  and  putting  the  time-worn 
volume  which  he  had  been  perusing  into  a large  goat-skin  pouch 
that  hung  by  his  side,  “I  will  now,”  said  he,  “conduct  thee  over 
my  rocky  kingdom,  that  thou  mayest  see  in  what  drear  and  barren 
places  that  ‘ -sweet  fruit  of  the  spirit,’  peace,  may  be  gathered.” 

To  speak  of  peace  to  a heart  throbbing  as  mine  did  at  that  mo- 
ment was  like  talking  of  some  distant  harbor  to  the  mariner  sink- 
ing at  sea.  In  vain  did  I look  around  for  some  sign  of  Alethe,  in 
vain  make  an  effort  even  to  utter  her  name.  Consciousness  of  my 

34  Chateaubriand  has  introduced  Paul  and  his  lion  into  the  “ Martyrs,”  liv.  xi. 


Thomas  Moore. 


605 


own  deceit,  as  well  as  a fear  of  awakening  in  the  mind  of  Melanius 
any  suspicion  that  might  tend  to  frustrate  my  only  hope,  threw  a 
fetter  over  my  spirit,  and  checked  my  tongue.  In  humble  silence, 
therefore,  I followed,  while  the  cheerful  old  man,  with  slow  but 
firm  step,  ascended  the  rock  by  the  same  ladders  which  I had 
mounted  on  the  preceding  night. 

During  the  time  when  the  Decian  persecution  was  raging  many 
Christians,  as  he  told  me,  of  the  neighborhood  had  taken  refuge 
under  his  protection  in  these  grottos,  and  the  small  chapel  upon 
the  summit  where  I had  found  his  flock  at  prayer  was  in  those 
awful  tinfbs  of  suffering  their  usual  place  of  retreat,  where,  by 
drawing  up  these  ladders,  they  were  enabled  to  secure  themselves 
from  pursuit. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  the  rock,  extending  on  either  side,  em- 
braced the  two  extremes  of  fertility  and  desolation ; nor  could  the 
Epicurean  and  the  anchoret,  who  now  stood  gazing  from  that 
height,  be  at  any  loss  to  indulge  their  respective  tastes  between  the 
living  luxuriance  of  the  world  on  one  side  and  the  dead,  pulseless 
repose  of  the  desert  on  the  other.  When  we  turned  to  the  river, 
what  a picture  of  animation  presented  itself  ! Near  us  to  the 
south  were  the  graceful  colonnades  of  Antinoe,  its  proud,  populous 
streets,  and  triumphal  monuments.  On  the  opposite  shore  rich 
plains,  all  teeming  with  cultivation  to  the  water’s  edge,  seemed  to 
offer  up  as  from  verdant  altars  their  fruits  to  the  sun,  while  beneath 
us  the  Nile — 

. . . . the  glorious  stream, 

That  late  between  its  banks  was  seen  to  glide, 

With  shrines  and  marble  cities  on  each  side 
Glittering,  like  jewels  strung  along  a chain, 

Had  now  sent  forth  its  waters,  and  o’er  plain 
And  valley,  like  a giant  from  his  bed 
Rising  with  outstretch’d  limbs,  superbly  spread. 

From  this  scene  on  one  side  of  the  mountain  we  had  but  to  turn 
round  our  eyes  to  the  other,  and  it  was  as  if  nature  herself  had  be- 
come suddenly  extinct — a wide  waste  of  sands,  bleak  and  intermina- 
ble, wearying  out  the  sun  with  its  sameness  of  desolation ; black, 
burnt-up  rocks  that  stood  as  barriers  at  which  life  stopped,  while 
the  only  signs  of  animation,  past  or  present,  were  the  footprints 
here  and  there,  of  an  antelope,,  or  ostrich,  or  the  bones  of  dead 


6o6 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Irela7id. 


camels  as  they  lay  whitening  at  a distance,  marking  out  the  track 
of  the  caravans  over  the  waste. 

After  listening  while  he  contrasted,  in  a few  eloquent  words,  the 
two  regions  of  life  and  death  on  whose  confines  we  stood,  I again  de- 
scended with  my  guide  to  the  garden  that  we  had  left.  From  thence, 
turning  into  a path  along  the  mountain -side,  he  led  me  to  another 
row  of  grottos  facing  the  desert,  which  had  been  once,  he  said,  the 
abode  of  those  brethren  in  Christ  who  had  fled  with  him  to  this 
solitude  from  the  crowded  world,  but  which  death  had,  within  a 
few  short  months,  rendered  tenantless.  A cross  of  red  stone  and  a 
few  faded  trees  were  the  only  traces  these  solitaries  had  left  behind. 

A silence  of  some  minutes  succeeded  while  we  descended  to  the 
edge  of  the  canal,  and  I saw  opposite  among  the  rocks  that  solitary 
cave  which  had  so  chilled  me  with  its  aspect  on  the  preceding 
night.  Beside  the  bank  we  found  one  of  those  rustic  boats  which 
the  Egyptians  construct  of  planks  of  wild  thorn,  bound  rudely  to- 
gether with  bands  of  papyrus.  Placing  ourselves  in  this  boat,  and 
rather  impelling  than  rowing  it  across,  we  made  our  way  through 
the  foul  and  shallow  flood,  and  landed  directly  under  the  site  of  the 
cave. 

This  dwellingwas  situated,  as  I have  already  mentioned,  on  a 
ledge  of  the  rock,  and,  being  provided  with  a sort  of  window  or 
aperture  to  admit  the  light  of  heaven,  was  accounted,  I found, 
far  more  cheerful  than  the  grottos  on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine. 
But  there  was  a dreariness  in  the  whole  region  around  to  which 
light  only  lent  additional  horror.  The  dead  whiteness  of  the  rocks 
as  they  stood  like  ghosts  in  the  sunshine,  that  melancholy  pool, 
half  lost  in  the  sands,  all  gave  to  my  mind  the  idea  of  a wasting 
w’orld.  To  dwell  in  a place  so  desolate  seemed  to  me  a living  death, 
and  when  the  Christian,  as  we  entered  the  cave,  said,  “ Here  is  to  be 
thy  home,”  prepared  as  I had  been  for  the  worst,  all  my  resolution 
gave  way,  every  feeling  of  disappointed  passion  and  humbled 
pride  which  had  been  gathering  round  my  heart  for  the  last  few 
hours  found  a vent  at  once,  and  I burst  into  tears. 

Accustomed  to  human  weakness,  and  perhaps  guessing  at  some 
of  the  sources  of  mine,  the  good  hermit,  without  appearing  to  take 
any  notice  of  this  emotion,  proceeded  to  expatiate  with  a cheerful 
air  on  what  he  called  the  comforts  of  my  dwelling.  Sheltered  from 
the  dry,  burning  wind  of  the  south,  my  porch  would  inhale,  he 
said,  the  fresh  breeze  of  the  Dog-star.  Fruits  from  his  own  moun- 


Thomas  Moore. 


607 


tain  garden  should  furnish  my  repast.  The  well  of  the  neighboring 
rock  would  supply  my  beverage  ; and  “here,” he  continued,  lower- 
ing his  voice  into  a more  solemn  tone  as  he  placed  upon  the  table 
the  volume  which  he  had  brought,  “ here,  my  son,  is  that  ‘ well  of 
living  waters  ’ in  which  alone  thou  wilt  find  lasting  refreshment  or 
peace.”  Thus  saying,  he  descended  the  rock  to  his  boat,  and,  after 
a few  plashes  of  his  oar  had  died  upon  my  ear,  the  solitude  and  si- 
lence that  reigned  around  me  was  complete. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

What  a fate  was  mine  ! but  a few  weeks  since  presiding  over  that 
gay  festival  of  the  garden,  with  all  the  luxuries  of  existence  tribu- 
tary in  my  train,  and  now — self-humbled  into  a solitary  outcast, 
the  hypocritical  pupil  of  a Christian  anchoret,  without  even  the 
excuse  of  religious  fanaticism  or  any  other  madness  but  that  of 
love,  wild  love,  to  extenuate  my  fall.  Were  there  a hope  that  by 
this  humiliating  waste  of  existence  I might  purchase  now  and  then 
a momentary  glimpse  of  Alethe,  even  the  depths  of  the  desert  with 
such  a chance  would  be  welcome.  But  to  live,  and  live  thus,  with- 
out her,  was  a misery  which  I neither  foresaw  nor  could  endure. 

Hating  even  to  look  upon  the  den  to  which  I was  doomed,  I 
hurried  out  into  the  air,  and  found  my  way  along  the  rocks  to  the 
desert.  The  sun  was  going  down,  with  that  blood-red  hue  which 
he  so  often  wears  in  this  climate  at  his  setting.  I saw  the  sands 
stretching  out  like  a sea  to  the  horizon,  as  if  their  waste  extended 
to  the  very  verge  of  the  world,  and  in  the  bitterness  of  my  feelings 
rejoiced  to  see  so  large  a portion  of  creation  rescued,  even  by  this 
barren  liberty,  from  the  encroaching  grasp  of  man.  The  thought 
seemed  to  relieve  my  wounded  pride,  and,  as  I wandered  over  the 
dim  and  boundless  solitude,  to  be  thus  free,  even  amidst  blight  and 
desolation,  appeared  to  me  a blessing. 

The  only  living  thing  I saw  was  a restless  swallow,  whose  wings 
were  of  the  same  hue  with  the  gray  sands  over  which  he  fluttered. 
“ Why,”  thought  I,  “may  not  the  mind,  like  this  bird,  partake  of 
the  color  of  the  desert,  and  sympathize  in  its  austerity,  its  freedom, 
and  its  calm  ?”  thus  vainly  endeavoring,  between  despondence  and 
defiance,  to  encounter  with  some  degree  of  fortitude  what  yet  my 
heart  sickened  to  contemplate.  But  the  effort  was  unavailing. 
Overcome  by  that  vast  solitude,  whose  repose  was  not  the  slumber 


6oS 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


of  peace,  but  ratlier  the  sullen  and  burning  silence  of  hate,  I felt 
my  spirit  give  way,  and  even  love  itself  yielded  to  despair. 

Taking  my  seat  on  a fragment  of  a rock,  and  covering  my  eyes 
with  my  hands,  I made  an  effort  to  shut  out  the  overwhelming 
prospect.  But  all  in  vain  ; it  was  still  before  me,  with  every  addi- 
tional horror  that  fancy  could  suggest ; and  when  again  looking 
forth  I beheld  the  last  red  ray  of  the  sun  shooting  across  the  melan- 
choly and  lifeless  waste,  it  appeared  to  me  like  the  light  of  that 
comet  which  once  desolated  this  world,  and  thus  luridly  shone  out 
over  the  ruin  that  it  had  made. 

Appalled  by  my  own  gloomy  imaginations,  I turned  towards  the 
ravine,  and,  notwithstanding  the  disgust  with  which  I had  fled 
from  my  dwelling,  was  not  ill  pleased  to  find  my  way  over  the  rocks 
to  it  again.  On  approaching  the  cave,  to  my  astonishment,  I saw  a 
light  within.  At  such  a moment  any  vestige  of  life  was  welcome, 
and  I hailed  the  unexpected  appearance  with  pleasure.  On  enter- 
ing, however,  I found  the  chamber  all  as  lonely  as  I had  left  it.  The 
light  I had  seen  came  from  a lamp  that  burned  brightly  on  the 
table ; beside  it  was  unfolded  the  volume  which  Melanius  had 
brought,  and  upon  the  open  leaves — oh  ! joy  and  surprise — lay  the 
well-known  cross  of  Alethe. 

What  hand  but  her  own  could  have  prepared  this  reception  for 
me  ? The  very  thought  sent  a hope  into  my  heart  before  which 
all  despondency  fled.  Even  the  gloom  of  the  desert  was  forgotten, 
and  my  rude  cave  at  once  brightened  into  a bower.  She  had  here 
reminded  me,  by  this  sacred  memorial,  of  the  vow  which  I had 
pledged  to  her  under  the  hermit’s  rock,  and  I now  scrupled  not  to 
reiterate  the  same  daring  promise,  though  conscious  that  through 
hypocrisy  alone  could  I fulfil  it. 

Eager  to  prepare  myself  for  my  task  of  imposture,  I sat  down  to 
the  volume,  which  I now  found  to  be  the  Hebrew  Scriptures,  and 
the  first  sentence  on  which  my  eyes  fell  was,  “ The  Lord  hath  com- 
manded the  blessing,  even  life  for  evermore.”  Startled  by  those 
words,  in  which  it  appeared  to  me  as  if  the  spirit  of  my  dream  had 
again  pronounced  his  assuring  prediction,36  I raised  my  eyes  from 

35  “ Many  people,”  said  Origen,  “ have  been  brought  over  to  Christianity  by  the  Spirit  of 
God  giving  a sudden  turn  to  their  minds,  and  offering  visions  to  them  either  by  day  or 
night.”  On  this  Jortin  remarks:  “ Why  should  it  be  thought  improbable  that  pagans  of 
good  dispositions,  but  not  free  from  prejudices,  should  have  been  called  by  divine  admo- 
nitions, by  dreams  or  visions,  which  might  be  a support  to  Christianity  in  those  days  of 
distress  ?” 


Thovias  Moore . 


609 


the  page  and  repeated  the  sentence  over  and  over,  as  if  to  try 
whether  in  these  sounds  there  lay  any  charm  or  spell  to  reawaken 
that  faded  illusion  in  my  soul.  But  no;  the  rank  frauds  of  the 
Memphian  priesthood  had  dispelled  all  my  trust  in  the  promises  of 
religion.  My  heart  had  again  relapsed  into  its  gloom  of  scepticism, 
and  to  the  word  of  “Life”  the  only  answer  it  sent  hack  was 
“ Death.” 

. Being  impatient,  however,  to  possess  myself  of  the  elements  of  a 
faith  upon  which — whatever  it  might  promise  for  hereafter — I felt 
that  all  my  happiness  here  depended,  I turned  over  the  pages  with 
an  earnestness  and  avidity  such  as  never  even  the  most  favorite  of 
my  studies  had  awakened  in  me.  Though,  like  all  who  seek  hut 
the  surface  of  learning,  I flew  desultorily  over  the  leaves,  lighting 
only  on  the  more  prominent  and  shining  points,  I yet  found  myself 
even  in  this  undisciplined  career  arrested  at  every  page  by  the 
awful,  the  supernatural  sublimity,  the  alternate  melancholy  and 
grandeur,  of  the  images  that  crowded  upon  me. 

I had  till  now  known  the  Hebrew  theology  but  through  the  pla- 
tonizing  refinement  of  Philo,  as,  in  like  manner,  for  my  knowledge 
of  the  Christian  doctrine  I was  indebted  to  my  brother  Epicureans, 
Lucian  and  Celsus.  Little,  therefore,  was  my  mind  prepared  for 
the  simple  majesty,  the  high  tone  of  inspiration,  the  poetry,  in 
short,  of  heaven  that  breathed  throughout  these  oracles.  Could 
admiration  have  kindled  faith,  I should  that  night  have  been  a 
believer,  so  elevated,  so  awed  was  my  imagination  by  that  wonder- 
ful book — its  warnings  of  woe,  its  announcements  of  glory,  and  its 
unrivalled  strains  of  adoration  and  sorrow. 

Hour  after  hour,  with  the  same  eager  and  desultory  curiosity,  did 
I turn  over  the  leaves,  and  when  at  length  I lay  down  to  rest,  my 
fancy  was  still  haunted  by  the  impressions  it  had  received.  I wTent 
again  through  the  various  scenes  of  which  I had  read,  again  called 
up  in  sleep  the  bright  images  that  had  passed  before  me,  and  when 
awakened  at  early  dawn  by  the  solemn  hymn  from  the  chapel, 
imagined  that  I was  still  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  winds  sighing 
mournfully  through  the  harps  of  Israel  on  the  willows. 

Starting  from  my  bed,  I hurried  out  upon  the  rock,  with  a hope 
that  among  the  tones  of  that  morning  choir  I might  be  able  to  dis- 
tinguish the  sweet  voice  of  Alethe.  But  the  strain  had  ceased  ; I 
caught  only  the  last  notes  of  the  hymn,  as,  echoing  up  that  lonely 
valley,  they  died  away  into  the  silence  of  the  desert. 


6 io  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

With  the  first  glimpse  of  light  I was  again  eagerly  at  my  study, 
and,  notwithstanding  the  frequent  distraction  both  of  my  thoughts 
and  looks  towards  the  distant,  half-seen  grottos  of  the  anchoret, 
continued  my  task  with  unabating  perseverance  through  the  day. 
Still  alive,  however,  but  to  the  eloquence,  the  poetry  of  what  I 
studied  ; of  its  claims  to  authority  as  a history  I never  once  paused 
to  consider.  My  fancy  alone  being  interested  by  it,  to  fancy  only 
I referred  all  that  it  contained,  and,  passing  rapidly  from  annals  to 
prophecy,  from  narration  to  song,  regarded  the  whole  but  as  a tissue 
of  oriental  allegories,  in  which  the  deep  melancholy  of  Egyptian  asso- 
ciations was  interwoven  with  the  rich  and  sensual  imagery  of  the  East. 

Towards  sunset  I saw  the  venerable  hermit  on  his  way  across  the 
canal  to  my  cave.  Though  he  was  accompanied  only  by  his  grace- 
ful antelope,  which  came  snuffing  the  wild  air  of  the  desert  as  if 
scenting  its  home,  I felt  his  visit  even  thus  to  be  a most  welcome 
relief.  It  was  the  hour,  he  said,  of  his  evening  ramble  up  the 
mountain — of  his  accustomed  visit  to  those  cisterns  of  the  rock  from 
which  he  drew  nightly  his  most  precious  beverage.  While  he  spoke 
I observed  in  his  hand  one  of  those  earthen  cups 36  in  which  it  is  the 
custom  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  wilderness  to  collect  the  fresh  dew 
among  the  rocks.  Having  proposed  that  I should  accompany  him 
in  his  walk,  he  proceeded  to  lead  me,  in  the  direction  of  the  desert, 
up  the  side  of  the  mountain  that  rose  above  my  dwelling,  and  which 
formed  the  southern  wall  or  screen  of  the  defile. 

Hear  the  summit  we  found  a seat,  where  the  old  man  paused  to 
rest.  It  commanded  a full  view  over  the  desert,  and  was  by  the  side 
of  one  of  those  hollows  in  the  rock,  those  natural  reservoirs,  in  which 
are  treasured  the  dews  of  night  for  the  refreshment  of  the  dwellers 
in  the  wilderness.  Having  learned  from  me  how  far  I had  advanced 
in  my  study,  “In  yonder  light,”  said  he,  pointing  to  a small  cloud 
in  the  east  which  had  been  formed  on  the  horizon  by  the  haze  of 
the  desert,  and  was  now  faintly  reflecting  the  splendors  of  sunset — 
“in  the  midst  of  that  light  stands  Mount  Sinai,  of  whose  glory  thou 
hast  read,  upon  whose  summit  was  the  scene  of  one  of  those  awful 
revelations  in  which  the  Almighty  has  renewed  from  time  to  time 
his  communication  with  man,  and  kept  alive  the  remembrance  of 
his  own  Providence  in  this  world.” 


36  PaUadius,  who  lived  some  time  in  Egypt,  describes  the  monk  Ptolemaeus,  who  in. 
habited  the  desert  of  Secte,  as  collecting  in  earthen  cups  the  abundant  dew  from  the 
rocks.— “ Bibliothec.  Pat.”  tom.  xiii. 


Thomas  Moore. 


6 ii 

After  a pause,  as  if  absorbed  in  the  immensity  of  the  subject,  the 
holy  man  continued  his  sublime  theme.  Looking  back  to  the  ear- 
liest annals  of  time,  he  showed  how  constantly  every  relapse  of  the 
human  race  into  idolatry  has  been  followed  by  some  manifestation 
of  divine  power,  chastening  the  strong  and  proud  by  punishment 
and  winning  back  the  humble  by  love.  It  was  to  preserve,  he 
said,  unextinguished  upon  earth  that  great  and  vital  truth — the 
creation  of  the  world  by  one  Supreme  Being — that  God  chose  from 
among  the  nations  an  humble  and  enslaved  race,  that  he  brought 
them  out  of  their  captivity  “on  eagles’  wings,”  and,  still  surround- 
ing every  step  of  their  course  with  miracles,  has  placed  them  before 
the  eyes  of  all  succeeding  generations  as  the  depositaries  of  his  will 
and  the  ever-during  memorials  of  his  power. 

Passing,  then,  in  review  the  long  train  of  inspired  interpreters, 
whose  pens  and  whose  tongues  were  made  the  echoes  of  the  divine 
voice,  he  traced  throughout  the  events  of  successive  ages  the  gradual 
unfolding  of  the  dark  scheme  of  Providence — darkness  without  but 
all  light  and  glory  within.  The  glimpses  of  a coming  redemption, 
visible  even  through  the  wrath  of  Heaven — the  long  series  of  pro- 
phecy through  which  this  hope  runs  burning  and  alive,  like  a spark 
along  a chain — the  slow  and  merciful  preparation  of  the  hearts  of 
mankind  for  the  great  trial  of  their  faith  and  obedience  that  was  at 
hand,  not  only  by  miracles  that  appealed  to  the  living,  but  by  pro- 
phecies launched  into  the  future  to  carry  conviction  to  the  yet  un- 
born— “through  all  these  glorious  and  beneficent  gradations  we 
may  track,”  said  he,  “the  manifest  footsteps  of  a Creator  advanc- 
ing to  his  grand,  ultimate  end — the  salvation  of  his  creatures.” 

Aiter  some  hours  devoted  to  these  holy  instructions,  we  returned 
to  the  ravine,  and  Melanius  left  me  at  my  cave,  praying,  as  he 
parted  from  me — with  a benevolence  which  I but  ill,  alas  ! deserved 
— that  my  soul  might,  under  these  lessons,  be  “ as  a watered  gar- 
den,” and,  ere  long,  “bear  fruit  unto  life  eternal.” 

Next  morning  I was  again  at  my  study,  and  even  more  eager  in 
the  awakening  task  than  before.  With  the  commentary  of  the  her- 
mit freshly  in  my  memory,  I again  read  through,  with  attention, 
the  Book  of  the  Law.  But  in  vain  did  I seek  the  promise  of  im- 
mortality in  its  pages.  “It  tells  me,”  said  I,  “of  a God  coming 
down  to  earth,  but  of  the  ascent  of  man  to  heaven  it  speaks  not. 
The  rewards,  the  punishments  it  announces  lie  all  on  this  side  of 
the  grave ; nor  did  even  the  Omnipotent  offer  to  his  own  chosen 


6l2 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


servants  a hope  beyond  the  impassable  limits  of  this  world.  Where, 
then,  is  the  salvation  of  which  the  Christian  spoke  ? or,  if  death  be 
at  the  root  of  the  faith,  can  life  spring  out  of  it  ? ” 

Again,  in  the  bitterness  of  disappointment,  did  I mock  at  my 
own  willing  self-delusion,  again  rail  at  the  arts  of  that  traitoress. 
Fancy,  ever  ready,  like  the  Delilah  of  this  wondrous  book,  to  steal 
upon  the  slumbers  of  Reason,  and  deliver  him  up,  shorn  and  power- 
less, to  his  foes.  If  deception,  thought  I,  be  necessary,  at  least  let 
me  not  practise  it  on  myself ; in  the  desperate  alternative  before 
me,  let  me  rather  be  even  hypocrite  than  dupe. 

These  self-accusing  reflections,  cheerless  as  they  rendered  my 
task,  did  not  abate,  for  a single  moment,  my  industry  in  pursuing 
it.  I read  on  and  on,  with  a sort  of  sullen  apathy,  neither  charmed 
by  style  nor  transported  by  imagery,  the  fatal  blight  in  my  heart 
having  communicated  itself  to  my  imagination  and  taste.  The 
curses  and  the  blessings,  the  glory  and  the  ruin,  which  the  historian 
had  recorded  and  the  prophet  had  predicted  seemed  all  of  this 
world — all  temporal  and  earthly.  That  mortality  of  which  the 
fountainhead  had  tasted  tinged  the  whole  stream;  and  when  I 
read  the  words,  “All  are  of  the  dust,  and  all  turn  to  dust 
again,”  a feeling  like  the  wind  of  the  desert  came  witheringly 
over  me.  Love,  beauty,  glory,  everything  most  bright  and  wor- 
shipped upon  earth,  appeared  to  be  sinking  before  my  eyes, 
under  this  dreadful  doom,  into  one  general  mass  of  corruption  and 
silence. 

Possessed  by  the  image  of  desolation  I had  thus  called  up,  I laid 
my  head  upon  the  book  in  a paroxysm  of  despair.  Death  in  all 
his  most  ghastly  varieties  passed  before  me,  and  I had  continued 
thus  for  some  time,  as  under  the  influence  of  a fearful  vision,  when 
the  touch  of  a hand  upon  my  shoulder  roused  me.  Looking  up,  I 
saw  the  anchoret  standing  by  my  side,  his  countenance  beaming 
with  that  sublime  tranquillity  which  a hope  beyond  this  earth  alone 
can  bestow.  How  I did  envy  him  ! 

We  again  took  our  way  to  the  seat  upon  the  mountain, the  gloom 
within  my  own  mind  making  everything  around  me  more  gloomy. 
Forgetting  my  hypocrisy  in  my  feelings,  I proceeded  at  once  to 
make  an  avowal  to  him  of  all  the  doubts  and  fears  which  my  study 
of  the  morning  had  awakened. 

“ Thou  art  yet,  my  son,”  he  answered,  “but  on  the  threshold  of 
our  faith.  Thou  hast  seen  but  the  first  rudiments  of  the  divine  plan  ; 


Thomas  Moore . 


6i3 

its  full  and  consummate  perfection  hath  not  yet  opened  upon  thy 
mind.  However  glorious  that  manifestation  of  divinity  on  Mount 
Sinai,  it  was  but  the  forerunner  of  another,  still  more  glorious, 
which,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  was  to  burst  upon  the  world ; when 
all  that  before  had  seemed  dim  and  incomplete  was  to  be  perfected, 
and  the  promises  shadowed  out  by  the  ‘ spirit  of  prophecy 5 real- 
ized ; when  the  seal  of  silence,  under  which  the  future  had  so  long 
lain,  was  to  be  broken,  and  the  glad  tidings  of  life  and  immortality 
proclaimed  to  the  world  ! ” 

Observing  my  features  brighten  at  these  words,  the  pious  man 
continued.  Anticipating  some  of  the  holy  knowledge  that  was  in 
store  for  me,  he  traced  through  all  its  wonders  and  mercies  the 
great  work  of  Redemption,  dwelling  in  detail  upon  every  miraculous 
circumstance  connected  with  it,  the  exalted  nature  of  the  Being  by 
wliosP  ministry  it  was  accomplished,  the  noblest  of  Beings,  the  Son 
of  God  ; the  mysterious  Incarnation  of  this  heavenly  messenger ; 
the  miracles  that  authenticated  His  divine  mission ; the  example  of 
obedience  to  God  and  love  to  man  which  He  set,  as  a shining  light, 
before  the  wTorld  for  ever-;  and,  lastly  and  chiefly,  His  death  and 
resurrection,  by  which  the  covenant  of  mercy  was  sealed,  and  “ life 
and  immortality  brought  to  light.” 

“ Such,”  continued  the  hermit,  “ was  the  Mediator  promised 
through  all  time  to  f make  reconciliation  for  iniquity/  to  change 
death  into  life,  and  bring  f healing  on  his  wings  ’ to  a darkened 
world.  Such  was  the  last  crowning  dispensation  of  that  God  of 
benevolence,  in  whose  hands  sin  and  death  are  but  instruments  of 
everlasting  good,  and  who  through  apparent  evil  and  temporary  re- 
tribution, bringing  all  things  ‘ out  of  darkness  into  his  marvellous 
light/  proceeds  watchfully  and  unchangingly  to  the  great,  final  ob- 
ject of  his  providence — the  restoration  of  the  human  race  to  purity 
and  happiness.” 

With  a mind  astonished  if  not  touched  by  these  discourses,  I re- 
turned to  my  cave,  and  found  the  lamp,  as  before,  ready  lighted  to 
receive  me.  The  volume  which  I had  been  hitherto  studying  was 
replaced  by  another,  which  lay  open  upon  the  table,  with  a branch 
of  fresh  palm  between  its  leaves.  Though  I could  not  doubt  to 
whose  gentle  and  guardian  hand  I was  indebted  for  this  invisible 
watchfulness  over  my  studies,  there  was  yet  a something  in  it  so 
like  spiritual  interposition  that  it  struck  me  with  awe,  and  never 
more  than  at  this  moment  when,  pn  approaching  the  volume,  I saw, 


614 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


as  the  light  glistened  over  its  silver  letters,  that  it  was  the  very  Book 
of  Life  of  which  the  hermit  had  spoken. 

The  midnight  hymn  of  the  Christians  had  sounded  through  the 
valley  before  I had  yet  raised  my  eyes  from  that  sacred  volume,  and 
the  second  hour  of  the  sun  found  me  again  over  its  pages. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

In  this  mode  of  existence  I had  now  passed  some  days,  my  morn- 
ings devoted  to  reading,  my  nights  to  listening,  under  the  wide 
canopy  of  heaven,  to  the  holy  eloquence  of  Melanius.  The  perse- 
verance with  which  I enquired,  and  the  quickness  with  which  I 
learned,  soon  succeeded  in  deceiving  my  benevolent  instructor,  who 
mistook  curiosity  for  zeal  and  knowledge  for  belief.  Alas  ! cold 
and  barren  and  earthly  was  that  knowledge — the  word  without  the 
spirit,  the  shape  without  the  life.  Even  when  as  a relief  from 
hypocrisy  I persuaded  myself  that  I believed,  it  was  but  a brief  de- 
lusion, a faith  whose  hope  crumbled  at  the  touch  like  the  fruit  of 
the  desert-shrub,  shining  and  empty. 

But  though  my  soul  was  still  dark,  the  good  hermit  saw  not 
into  its  depths.  The  very  facility  of  my  belief,  which  might  have 
suggested  some  doubt  of  its  sincerity,  was  but  regarded  by  his  inno- 
cent zeal  as  a more  signal  triumph  of  the  truth.  His  own  ingenu- 
ousness led  him  to  a ready  trust  in  others,  and  the  examples  of  such 
conversion  as  that  of  the  philosopher  Justin,  who,  during  a walk 
by  the  sea-shore,  received  the  light  into  his  soul,  had  prepared  him 
for  illuminations  of  the  spirit  even  more  rapid  than  mine. 

During  all  this  time  I neither  saw  nor  heard  of  Alethe,  nor  could 
my  patience  have  endured  through  so  long  a privation  had  not  those 
mute  vestiges  of  her  presence  that  welcomed  me  every  night  on  my 
return  made  me  feel  that  I was  still  living  under  her  gentle  influ- 
ence, and  that  her  sympathy  hung  round  every  step  of  my  progress. 
Once,  too,  when  I ventured  to  speak  her  name  to  Melanius,  though 
he  answered  not  my  enquiry,  there  was  a smile,  I thought,  of  pro- 
mise upon  his  countenance,  which  love,  far  more  alive  than  faith, 
was  ready  to  interpret  as  it  desired. 

At  length — it  was  on  the  sixth  or  seventh  evening  of  my  solitude, 
when  I lay  resting  at  the  door  of  my  cave  after  the  study  of  the 
day — I was  startled  by  hearing  my  name  called  loudly  from  the 
opposite  rocks,  and  looking  up,  saw  upon  the  cliff  near  the  deserted 


Thomas  Moore.  615 

grottos  Melanius  and — oh  ! I could  not  doubt — my  Alcthe  by  his 
side. 

Though  I had  never  since  the  first  night  of  my  return  from  the 
desert  ceased  to  flatter  myself  with  the  fancy  that  I was  still  living 
in  her  presence,  the  actual  sight  of  her  once  more  made  me  feel  for 
what  a long  age  we  had  been  separated.  She  was  clothed  all  in 
white,  and,  as  she  stood  in  the  last  remains  of  the  sunshine,  ap- 
peared to  my  too  prophetic  fancy  like  a parting  spirit  whose  last 
footsteps  on  earth  that  pure  glory  encircled. 

With  a delight  only  to  be  imagined  I saw  them  descend  the  rocks, 
and,  placing  themselves  in  the  boat,  proceed  directly  towards  my 
cave.  To  disguise  from  Melanius  the  mutual  delight  with  which  we 
again  met  was  impossible,  nor  did  Alethe  even  attempt  to  make  a 
secret  of  her  joy.  Though  blushing  at  her  own  happiness,  as  little 
could  her  frank  nature  conceal  it  as  the  clear  waters  of  Ethiopia  can 
hide  their  gold.  Every  look,  every  word,  bespoke  a fulness  of  affec- 
tion to  which,  doubtful  as  I was  of  our  tenure  of  happiness,  I knew 
not  how  to  respond. 

I was  not  long,  however,  left  ignorant  of  the  bright  fate  that 
awaited  me ; but,  as  we  wandered  or  rested  among  the  rocks,  learned 
everything  that  had  been  arranged  since  our  parting.  She  had 
made  the  hermit,  I found,  acquainted  with  all  that  had  passed  be- 
tween us  ; had  told  him  without  reserve  every  incident  of  our  voy- 
age— the  avowals,  the  demonstrations  of  affection  on  one  side,  and  the 
deep  sentiment  that  gratitude  had  awakened  on  the  other.  Too  wise 
to  regard  affections  so  natural  with  severity,  knowing  that  they  were 
of  heaven,  and  but  made  evil  by  man,  the  good  hermit  had  heard  of 
our  attachment  with  pleasure,  and,  fully  satisfied  as  to  the  honor  and 
purity  of  my  views  by  the  fidelity  with  which  I had  delivered  my 
trust  into  his  hands,  saw  in  my  affection  for  the  young  orphan  but  a 
providential  resource  against  that  friendless  solitude  in  which  his 
death  must  soon  leave  her. 

As,  listening  eagerly,  I collected  these  particulars  from  their  dis- 
course, I could  hardly  trust  my  ears.  It  seemed  a happiness  too 
great  to  be  true,  to  be  real ; nor  can  words  convey  any  idea  of  the 
joy,  the  shame,  the  wonder  with  which  I listened  while  the  holy 
man  himself  declared  that  he  awaited  but  the  moment  when  he 
should  find  me  worthy  of  becoming  a member  of  the  Christian  Church, 
to  give  me  also  the  hand  of  Alethe  in  that  sacred  union  which 
alone  sanctifies  love,  and  makes  the  faith  which  it  pledges  holy.  It 


6i6 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


was  but  yesterday,  lie  added,  that  his  young  charge  herself,  after  a 
preparation  of  prayer  and  repentance,  such  as  even  her  pure  spirit 
required,  had  been  admitted  by  the  sacred  ordinance  of  baptism  into 
the  bosom  of  the  faith,  and  the  white  garment  she  wore  and  the 
ring  of  gold  on  her  finger  “were  symbols,”  he  added,  “of  that  new 
life  into  which  she  had  been  initiated.” 

I raised  my  eyes  to  hers  as  he  spoke,  but  withdrew  them  again, 
dazzled  and  confused.  Even  her  beauty,  to  my  imagination,  seemed 
to  have  undergone  some  brightening  change,  and  the  contrast  be- 
tween that  happy  and  open  countenance  and  the  unblest  brow  of 
the  infidel  that  stood  before  her  abashed  me  into  a sense  of  unwor- 
thiness, and  almost  checked  my  rapture. 

To  that  night,  however,  I look  back  as  an  epoch  in  my  existence. 
It  proved  that  sorrow  is  not  the  only  awakener  of  devotion,  but  that 
joy  may  sometimes  quicken  the  holy  spark  into  life.  Returning  to 
my  cave  with  a heart  full,  even  to  oppression,  of  its  happiness,  I 
could  find  no  other  relief  to  my  overcharged  feelings  than  that  of 
throwing  myself  on  my  knees  and  uttering,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  a heart-felt  prayer,  that  if,  indeed,  there  were  a Being  who 
watched  over  mankind,  he  would  send  down  one  ray  of  his  truth 
into  my  darkened  soul  and  make  it  worthy  of  the  blessings,  both 
here  and  hereafter,  proffered  to  it ! 

My  days  now  rolled  on  in  a perfect  dream  of  happiness.  Every 
hour  of  the  morning  was  welcomed  as  bringing  nearer  and  nearer 
the  blest  time  of  sunset,  when  the  hermit  and  Alethe  never  failed  to 
visit  my  now  charmed  cave,  where  her  smile  left  at  each  parting  a 
light  that  lasted  till  her  return.  Then  our  rambles  together  by 
starlight  over  the  mountain  ; our  pauses,  from  time  to  time,  to 
contemplate  the  wonders  of  the  bright  heaven  above  us  ; our  repose 
by  the  cistern  of  the  rock ; and  our  silent  listening,  through  hours 
that  seemed  minutes,  to  the  holy  eloquence  of  our  teacher — all,  all 
was  happiness  of  the  most  heartfelt  kind,  and  such  as  even  the 
doubts,  the  cold,  lingering  doubts,  that  still  hung  like  a mist  around 
my  heart  could  neither  cloud  nor  chill. 

As  soon  as  the  moonlight  nights  returned  we  used  to  venture  into 
the  desert,  and  those  sands,  which  had  lately  looked  so  desolate  in 
my  eyes,  now  assumed  even  a cheerful  and  smiling  aspect.  To  the 
light,  innocent  heart  of  Alethe  everything  was  a source  of  enjoy- 
ment. For  her  even  the  desert  had  its  jewels  and  flowers,  and 
sometimes  her  delight  was  to  search  among  the  sands  for  those 


Thomas  Moore. 


617 


beautiful  pebbles  of  jasper  that  abound  in  them ; sometimes  her 
eyes  would  sparkle  with  pleasure  on  finding,  perhaps,  a stunted 
marigold,  or  one  of  those  bitter,  scarlet  flowers  that  lend  their  dry 
mockery  of  ornament  to  the  desert.  I11  all  these  pursuits  and 
pleasures  the  good  hermit  took  a share,  mingling  occasionally  with 
them  the  reflections  of  a benevolent  piety  that  lent  its  own  cheerful 
hue  to  all  the  works  of  creation,  and  saw  the  consoling  truth,  “ God 
is  love,”  written  legibly  everywhere. 

Such  was,  for  a few  weeks,  my  blissful  life.  0 mornings  of 
hope  ! 0 nights  of  happiness  ! with  what  melancholy  pleasure  do  I 
retrace  your  flight,  and  how  reluctantly  pass  to  the  sad  events  that 
followed  ! 

During  this  time,  in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  Melanius,  who 
seemed  unwilling  that  I should  become  wholly  estranged  from  the 
world,  I used  occasionally  to  pay  a visit  to  the  neighboring  city, 
Antinoe,  which,  being  the  capital  of  the  Thebaid,  is  the  centre  of 
all  the  luxury  of  Upper  Egypt.  But  here,  so  changed  was  my 
every  feeling  by  the  all-absorbing  passion  which  now  possessed  me, 
that  I sauntered  along  wholly  uninterested  by  either  the  scenes  or 
the  people  that  surrounded  me,  and,  sighing  for  that  rocky  solitude 
where  my  Alethe  breathed,  felt  this  to  be  the  wilderness  and  that 
the  world. 

Even  the  thoughts  of  my  own  native  Athens,  that  at  every  step 
was  called  up  by  the  light  Grecian  architecture  of  this  imperial 
city,  did  not  awaken  one  single  regret  in  my  heart,  one  wish  to  ex- 
change even  an  hour  of  my  desert  for  the  best  luxuries  and  honors 
that  awaited  me  in  the  garden.  I saw  the  arches  of  triumph,  I 
walked  under  the  superb  portico  which  encircles  the  whole  city  with 
its  marble  shade,  I stood  in  the  Circus  of  the  Sun,  by  whose  rose- 
colored  pillars  the  mysterious  movements  of  the  Nile  are  measured — 
on  all  these  proud  monuments  of  glory  and  art,  as  well  as  on  the 
gay  multitude  that  enlivened  them,  I looked  with  unheeding  eye. 
If  they  awakened  in  me  any  thought,  it  was  the  mournful  idea  that 
one  day,  like  Thebes  and  Heliopolis,  this  pageant  would  pass  away, 
leaving  nothing  behind  but  a few  mouldering  ruins,  like  sea-shells 
found  where  the  ocean  has  been,  to  tell  that  the  great  tide  of  life 
was  once  there  ! 

But  though  indifferent  thus  to  all  that  had  formerly  attracted 
me,  there  were  subjects  once  alien  to  my  heart  on  which  it  was  now 
most  tremblingly  alive,  and  some  rumors  which  had  reached  me  in 


6iS 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


one  of  my  visits  to  tlie  city,  of  an  expected  change  in  the  policy  of 
the  emperor  towards  the  Christians,  filled  my  mind  with  apprehen- 
sions as  new  as  they  were  dreadful  to  me. 

The  toleration  and  even  favor  which  the  Christians  enjoyed  dur- 
ing the  first  four  years  of  the  reign  of  Valerian  had  removed  from 
them  all  fear  of  a renewal  of  those  horrors  which  they  had  experi- 
enced under  the  rule  of  his  predecessor,  Decius.  Of  late,  however, 
some  less  friendly  dispositions  had  manifested  themselves.  The 
bigots  of  the  court,  taking  alarm  at  the  rapid  spread  of  the  new 
faith,  had  succeeded  in  filling  the  mind  of  the  monarch  with  that 
religious  jealousy  which  is  the  ever- ready  parent  of  cruelty  and  in- 
justice. Among  these  counsellors  of  evil  was  Macrianus,  the  Prae- 
torian Prefect,  who  was  by  birth  an  Egyptian,  and  had  long  made 
himself  notorious — so  akin  is  superstition  to  intolerance — by  his 
addiction  to  the  dark  practices  of  demon-worship  and  magic. 

From  this  minister,  who  was  now  high  in  the  favor  of  Valerian, 
the  new  measures  of  severity  against  the  Christians  were  expected 
to  emanate.  All  tongues  in  all  quarters  were  busy  with  the  news. 
In  the  streets,  in  the  public  gardens,  on  the  steps  of  the  temples,  I 
saw  everywhere  groups  of  enquirers  collected,  and  heard  the  name 
of  Macrianus  upon  every  tongue.  It  was  dreadful,  too,  to  observe 
in  the  countenances  of  those  who  spoke  the  variety  of  feeling  with 
which  the  rumor  was  discussed,  according  as  they  feared  or  desired 
its  truth,  according  as  they  were  likely  to  be  among  the  torturers  or 
the  victims. 

Alarmed,  though  still  ignorant  of  the  whole  extent  of  the  danger, 
I hurried  back  to  the  ravine,  and  going  at  once  to  the  grotto  of 
Melanius,  detailed  to  him  every  particular  of  the  intelligence  I had 
collected.  He  listened  to  me  with  a composure  which  I mistook, 
alas  ! for  confidence  in  his  own  security,  and,  naming  the  hour  for 
our  evening  walk,  retired  into  his  grotto. 

At  the  accustomed  time,  accompanied  by  Alethe,  he  came  to  my 
cave.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  not  communicated  to  her  the  in- 
telligence which  I had  brought,  for  never  hath  brow  worn  such  hap- 
piness as  that  which  now  played  around  hers ; it  was,  alas  ! not  of 
this  earth.  Melanius  himself,  though  conrposed,  was  thoughtful, 
and  the  solemnity,  almost  approaching  to  melancholy,  with  which 
he  placed  the  hand  of  Alethe  in  mine — in  the  performance,  too,  of 
a ceremony  that  ought  to  have  filled  my  heart  with  joy — saddened 
and  alarmed  me.  This  ceremony  was  our  betrothment,  the  act  of 


Thomas  Moore . 


619 


plighting  our  faith  to  each  other,  which  we  now  solemnized  on  the 
rock  before  the  door  of  my  cave  in  the  face  of  that  calm,  sunset 
heaven,  whose  one  star  stood  as  our  witness.  After  a blessing  from 
the  hermit  upon  our  spousal  pledge,  I placed  the  ring,  the  earnest 
of  our  future  union,  on  her  finger,  and  in  the  blush  with  which 
she  surrendered  to  me  her  whole  heart  at  that  instant  forgot 
everything  but  my  happiness,  and  felt  secure  even  against  fate. 

We  took  our  accustomed  walk  that  evening  over  the  rocks  and  on 
the  desert.  So  bright  was  the  moon — more  like  the  daylight,  in- 
deed, of  other  climes — that  we  could  plainly  see  the  tracks  of  the 
wild  antelopes  in  the  sand ; and  it  was  not  without  a slight  tremble 
of  feeling  in  his  voice,  as  if  some  melancholy  analogy  occurred  to 
him  as  he  spoke,  that  the  good  hermit  said,  “I  have  observed  in 
the  course  of  my  walks  that  wherever  the  track  of  that  gentle  ani- 
mal appears  there  is  almost  always  found  the  foot-print  of  a beast 
of  prey  near  it.”  He  regained,  however,  his  usual  cheerfulness  be- 
fore we  parted,  and  fixed  the  following  evening  for  an  excursion  on 
the  other  side  of  the  ravine  to  a point  looking,  he  said,  “towards 
that  northern  region  of  the  desert,  where  the  hosts  of  the  Lord  en- 
camped in  their  departure  out  of  bondage.” 

Though  when  Alethe  was  present  all  my  fears  even  for  herself 
were  forgotten  in  that  perpetual  element  of  happiness  which  encir- 
cled her  like  the  air  that  she  breathed,  no  sooner  was  I alone  than 
vague  terrors  and  bodings  crowded  upon  me.  In  vain  did  I en- 
deavor to  reason  away  my  fears  by  dwelling  only  on  the  most  cheer- 
ing circumstances,  on  the  reverence  with  which  Melanius  was  re- 
garded even  by  the  pagans,  and  the  inviolate  security  witli  which 
he  had  lived  through  the  most  perilous  periods,  not  only  safe  him- 
self, but  affording  sanctuary  in  the  depths  of  his  grottos  to  others. 
Though  somewhat  calmed  by  these  considerations,  yet  when  at 
length  I sunk  off  to  sleep,  dark,  horrible  dreams  took  possession  of 
my  mind.  Scenes  of  death  and  of  torment  passed  confusedly  be- 
fore me,  and  when  I awoke  it  was  with  the  fearful  impression  that 
all  these  horrors  were  real. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

At  length  the  day  dawned,  that  dreadful  day  ! Impatient  to  be 
relieved  from  my  suspense,  I threw  myself  into  my  boat,  the  same 
in  which  we  had  performed  our  happy  voyage,  and  as  fast  as  oars 


620  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

could  speed  me  hurried  away  to  the  city.  I found  the  suburbs  si- 
lent and  solitary,  but  as  I approached  the  forum  loud  yells,  like 
those  of  barbarians  in  combat,  struck  on  my  ear,  and  when  I en- 
tered it — great  God,  what  a spectacle  presented  itself  ! The  impe- 
rial edict  against  the  Christians  had  arrived  during  the  night, 
and  already  the  wild  fury  of  bigotry  was  let  loose. 

Under  a canopy  in  the  middle  of  the  forum  was  the  tribunal  of 
the  governor.  Two  statues — one  of  Apollo,  the  other  of  Osiris — 
stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  that  led  up  to  his  judgment-seat. 
Before  these  idols  were  shrines,  to  which  the  devoted  Christians 
were  dragged  from  all  quarters  by  the  soldiers  and  mob,  and  there 
compelled  to  recant,  by  throwing  incense  into  the  flame,  or,  on  their 
refusal,  hurried  away  to  torture  and  death.  It  was  an  appalling 
scene  ; the  consternation,  the  cries  of  some  of  the  victims,  the  pale, 
silent  resolution  of  others  ; the  fierce  shouts  of  laughter  that  broke 
from  the  multitude  when  the  dropping  of  the  frankincense  on  the 
altar  proclaimed  some  denier  of  Christ ; and  the  fiend-like  triumph 
with  which  the  courageous  confessors  who  avowed  their  faith  were 
led  away  to  the  flames — never  could  I have  conceived  such  an  as- 
semblage of  horrors  ! 

Though  I gazed  but  for  a few  minutes,  in  those  minutes  I felt 
and  fancied  enough  for  years.  Already  did  the  form  of  Alethe  ap- 
pear to  flit  before  me  through  that  tumult ; I heard  them  shout  her 
name,  her  shriek  fell  on  my  ear,  and  the  very  thought  so  palsied 
me  with  terror  that  I stood  fixed  and  statue-like  on  the  spot. 

Recollecting,  however,  the  fearful  preciousness  of  every  moment, 
and  that,  perhaps,  at  this  very  instant  some  emissaries  of  blood 
might  be  on  their  way  to  the  grottos,  I rushed  wildly  out  of  the 
forum  and  made  my  way  to  the  quay. 

The  streets  were  now  crowded,  but  I ran  headlong  through  the 
multitude,  and  was  already  under  the  portico  leading  down  to  the 
river — already  saw  the  boat  that  was  to  bear  me  to  Alethe — when  a 
centurian  stood  sternly  in  my  path,  and  I was  surrounded  and 
arrested  by  soldiers  ! It  was  in  vain  that  I implored,  that  I 
struggled  with  them,  as  for  life,  assuring  them  that  I was  a stran- 
ger, that  I was  an  Athenian,  that  I was — not  a Christian.  The 
precipitation  of  my  flight  was  sufficient  evidence  against  me,  and 
unrelentingly,  and  by  force,  they  bore  me  away  to  the  quarters  of 
their  chief. 

It  was  enough  to  drive  me  at  once  to  madness  ! Two  hours,  two 


Thomas  Moore. 


62 1 

frightful  hours,  was  I kept  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  tribune  of  their 
legion,  my  brain  burning  with  a thousand  fears  and  imaginations, 
which  every  passing  minute  made  but  more  likely  to  be  realized. 
All  I could  collect,  too,  from  the  conversations  of  those  around  me 
but  added  to  the  agonizing  apprehensions  with  which  I was  racked. 
Troops,  it  was  said,  had  been  sent  in  all  directions  through  the 
neighborhood  to  bring  in  the  rebellious  Christians  and  make  them 
bow  before  the  gods  of  the  empire.  With  horror,  too,  I heard  of 
Orcus — Orcus,  the  High-Priest  of  Memphis — as  one  of  the  principal 
instigators  of  this  sanguinary  edict,  and  as  here  present  in  Antinoe, 
animating  and  directing  its  execution. 

In  this  state  of  torture  I remained  till  the  arrival  of  the  tribune. 
Absorbed  in  my  own  thoughts,  I had  not  perceived  his  entrance, 
till,  hearing  a voice  in  a tone  of  friendly  surprise,  exclaim,  “ Alci- 
phron  ! ” I looked  up,  and  in  this  legionary  chief  recognized  a 
young  Roman  of  rank  who  had  held  a military  command  the  year 
before  at  Athens,  and  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  visitors  of 
the  garden.  It  was  no  time,  however,  for  courtesies ; he  was  proceed- 
ing with  all  cordiality  to  greet  me,  but,  having  heard  him  order  my 
instant  release,  I could  wait  for  no  more.  Acknowledging  his  kind- 
ness but  by  a grasp  of  the  hand,  I flew  off,  like  one  frantic,  through 
the  streets,  and  in  a few  minutes  was  on  the  river. 

My  sole  hope  had  been  to  reach  the  grottos  before  any  of  the  de- 
tached parties  should  arrive,  and,  by  a timely  flight  across  the  desert, 
rescue,  at  least,  Alethe  from  their  fury.  The  ill-fated  delay  that 
had  occurred  rendered  this  hope  almost  desperate,  but  the  tran- 
quillity I found  everywhere  as  I proceeded  down  the  river,  and  my 
fond  confidence  in  the  sacredness  of  the  hermit’s  retreat,  kept  my 
heart  from  sinking  altogether  under  its  terrors. 

Between  the  current  and  my  oars,  the  boat  flew  with  the  speed  of 
wind  along  the  waters,  and  I was  already  near  the  rocks  of  the 
ravine  when  I saw,  turning  out  of  the  canal  into  the  river,  a barge 
crowded  with  people  and  glittering  with  arms  ! How  did  I ever 
survive  the  shock  of  that  sight  ? The  oars  dropped,  as  if  struck  out 
of  my  hands,  into  the  water,  and  I sat  helplessly  gazing  as  that 
terrific  vision  approached.  In  a few  minutes  the  current  brought 
us  together,  and  I saw,  on  the  deck  of  the  barge,  Alethe  herself  and 
the  hermit  surrounded  by  soldiers  ! 

We  were  already  passing  each  other  when,  with  a desperate  effort, 
I sprang  from  my  boat  and  lighted  upon  the  edge  of  their  vessel. 


622 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


I knew  not  wliat  I (lid,  for  despair  was  my  only  prompter.  Snatch- 
ing at  the  sword  of  one  of  the  soldiers  as  I stood  tottering  on  the 
edge,  I had  succeeded  in  wresting  it  out  of  his  hands  when,  at  the 
same  moment,  I received  a thrust  of  a lance  from  one  of  his  com- 
rades and  fell  backward  into  the  river.  I can  just  remember  rising 
again  and  making  a grasp  at  the  side  of  the  vessel,  hut  the  shock 
and  the  faintness  from  my  wound  deprived  me  of  all  consciousness, 
and  a shriek  from  Alethe  as  I sank  is  all  I can  recollect  of  what 
followed. 

Would  that  I had  then  died  ! Yet  no,  Almighty  Being,  I should 
have  died  in  darkness,  and  I have  lived  to  know  thee  ! 

On  returning  to  my  senses,  I found  myself  reclining  on  a couch  in 
a splendid  apartment,  the  whole  appearance  of  which  being  Grecian, 
I for  a moment  forgot  all  that  had  passed,  and  imagined  myself 
in  my  own  home  at  Athens.  But  too  soon  the  whole  dreadful  cer- 
tainty flashed  upon  me,  and,  starting  wildly — disabled  as  I was — 
from  my  couch,  I called  loudly,  and  with  the  shriek  of  a maniac, 
upon  Alethe. 

I was  in  the  house,  I then  found,  of  my  friend  and  disciple,  the 
young  tribune,  who  had  made  the  governor  acquainted  with  my 
name  and  condition,  and  had  received  me  under  his  roof  when 
brought  bleeding  and  insensible  to  Antinoe.  From  him  I now 
learned  at  once,  for  I could  not  wait  for  details,  the  sum  of  all  that 
had  happened  in  that  dreadful  interval.  Melanius  was  no  more, 
Alethe  still  alive,  but  in  prison. 

“ Take  me  to  her,”  I had  but  time  to  say — “ take  me  to  her  in- 
stantly and  let  me  die  by  her  side,”  when,  nature  again  failing  under 
such  shocks,  I relapsed  into  insensibility.  In  this  state  I continued 
for  near  an  hour,  and  on  recovering  found  the  tribune  by  my  side. 
The  horrors,  he  said,  of  the  forum  were  for  that  day  over,  but  what 
the  morrow  might  bring  he  shuddered  to  contemplate.  His  nature, 
it  was  plain,  revolted  from  the  inhuman  duties  in  which  he  was  en- 
gaged. Touched  by  the  agonies  he  saw  me  suffer,  he  in  some  degree 
relieved  them  by  promising  that  I should  at  nightfall  be  conveyed 
to  the  prison,  and,  if  possible,  through  his  influence  gain  access  to 
Alethe.  She  might  yet,  he  added,  be  saved,  could  I succeed  in  per- 
suading her  to  comply  with  the  terms  of  the  edict,  and  make  sacri- 
fice to  the  gods.  “Otherwise,”  said  he,  “there  is  no  hope;  the 
vindictive  Orcus,  who  has  resisted  even  this  short  respite  of  mercy, 
will  to-morrow  inexorably  demand  his  prey.” 


Tho7nas  Moore. 


6 23 


He  then  related  to  me,  at  my  own  request,  though  every  word 
was  torture,  all  the  harrowing  details  of  the  proceeding  before  th« 
tribunal.  “I  have  seen  courage,”  said  he,  “in  its  noblest  forms 
in  the  field  ; but  the  calm  intrepidity  with  which  that  aged  her- 
mit endured  torments — which  it  was  hardly  less  torment  to 
witness — surpassed  all  that  I could  have  conceived  of  human 
fortitude.” 

My  poor  Alethe,  too  ; in  describing  to  me  her  conduct,  the  brave 
man  wept  like  a child.  Overwhelmed,  he  said,  at  first  by  her  ap- 
prehensions for  my  safety,  she  had  given  way  to  a full  burst  of 
womanly  weakness.  But  no  sooner  was  she  brought  before  the  tri- 
bunal and  the  declaration  of  her  faith  was  demanded  of  her  than  a 
spirit  almost  supernatural  seemed  to  animate  her  whole  form. 
“ She  raised  her  eyes,”  said  he,  “ calmly,  but  with  fervor,  to  heaven, 
while  a blush  was  the  only  sign  of  mortal  feeling  on  her  features, 
and  the  clear,  sweet,  and  untrembling  voice  with  which  she  pro- 
nounced her  own  doom  in  the  words,  ‘ I am  a Christian  ! ? 37  sent  a 
thrill  of  admiration  and  pity  throughout  the  multitude.  Her 
youth,  her  loveliness  affected  all  hearts,  and  a cry  of  ‘ Save  the 
young  maiden  ! ’ was  heard  in  all  directions.” 

The  implacable  Orcus,  however,  would  not  hear  of  mercy.  Re- 
senting, as  it  appeared,  with  all  his  deadliest  rancor,  not  only  her 
own  escape  from  his  toils,  but  the  aid  with  which  she  had,  so 
fatally  to  his  views,  assisted  mine,  he  demanded  loudly  and  in  the 
name  of  the  insulted  sanctuary  of  Isis,  her  instant  death.  It  was  but 
by  the  firm  intervention  of  the  governor,  who  shared  the  general 
sympathy  in  her  fate,  that  the  delay  of  another  day  was  granted  to 
give  a chance  to  the  young  maiden  of  yet  recalling  her  confession, 
and  thus  affording  some  pretext  for  saving  her. 

Even  in  yielding,  with  evident  reluctance,  to  this  respite,  the  in- 
human priest  would  yet  accompany  it  with  some  mark  of  his  ven- 
geance. Whether  for  the  pleasure  (observed  the  tribune)  of 
mingling  mockery  with  his  cruelty,  or  as  a warning  to  her  of  the 
doom  she  must  ultimately  expect,  he  gave  orders  that  there  should 
be  tied  around  her  brow  one  of  those  chaplets  of  coral  with  which 
it  is  the  custom  of  young  Christian  maidens  to  array  themselves  on 
the  day  of  their  martyrdom  ; “and  thus  fearfully  adorned,”  said  he, 

37  The  merit  of  the  confession  “ Christianus  sum,”  or  “Christiana  sum,”  was  con- 
siderably enhanced  by  the  clearness  and  distinctness  with  which  it  was  pronounced. 
Eusebius  mentions  the  martyr  Vetius  as  making  it  Aa/ug-poTaTij 


624  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

“she  was  led  away  amidst  the  gaze  of  the  pitying  multitude  to 
prison.  ” 

With  these  harrowing  details  the  short  interval  till  nightfall — 
every  minute  of  which  seemed  an  age — was  occupied.  As  soon  as  it 
grew  dark,  I was  placed  upon  a litter — my  wound,  though  not  dan- 
gerous, requiring  such  a conveyance — and,  under  the  guidance  of  my 
friend,  I was  conducted  to  the  prison.  Through  his  interest  with 
the  guard  we  were  without  difficulty  admitted,  and  I was  borne 
into  the  chamber  where  the  maiden  lay  immured.  Even  the  veteran 
guardian  of  the  place  seemed  touched  with  compassion  for  his 
prisoner,  and,  supposing  her  to  be  asleep,  had  the  litter  placed  gently 
near  her. 

She  was  half  reclining,  with  her  face  hid  beneath  her  hands,  upon 
a couch,  at  the  foot  of  which  stood  an  idol,  over  whose  hideous 
features  a lamp  of  naphtha  that  hung  from  the  ceiling  shed  a wild 
and  ghastly  glare.  On  a table  before  the  image  stood  a censer,  with 
a small  vessel  of  incense  beside  it,  one  grain  of  which  thrown  vol- 
untarily into  the  flame  would,  even  now,  save  that  precious  life.  So 
strange,  so  fearful  was  the  whole  scene  that  I almost  doubted  its 
reality.  Alethe,  my  own,  happy  Alethe  ! can  it,  I thought,  be  thou 
that  I look  upon  ? 

She  now  slowly  and  with  difficulty  raised  her  head  from  the  couch, 
on  observing  which  the  kind  tribune  withdrew,  and  we  were  left 
alone.  There  was  a paleness  as  of  death  over  her  features,  and 
those  eyes,  which  when  last  I saw  them  were  but  too  bright,  too 
happy  for  this  world,  looked  dim  and  sunken.  In  raising  herself 
up,  she  put  her  hand,  as  if  from  pain,  to  her  forehead,  whose  mar- 
ble hue  but  appeared  more  deatli-like  from  those  red  bands  that  lay 
so  awfully  across  it. 

After  wandering  for  a minute  vaguely,  her  eyes  at  length  rested 
upon  me,  and,  with  a shriek  half  terror,  half  joy,  she  sprung  from 
the  couch  and  sunk  upon  her  knees  by  my  side.  She  had  believed 
me  dead,  and  even  now  scarcely  trusted  her  senses.  “ My  husband  ! 
my  love  ! ” she  exclaimed;  “ oh  ! if  thou  comest  to  call  me  from  this 
world,  behold  I am  ready.”  In  saying  thus  she  pointed  wildly  to 
that  ominous  wreath,  and  then  dropped  her  head  down  upon  my 
knee  as  if  an  arrow  had  pierced  it. 

“Alethe  !”  I cried,  terrified  to  the  very  soul  by  that  mysterious 
pang,  and,  as  if  the  sound  of  my  voice  had  reanimated  her,  she 
looked  up,  with  a faint  smile,  in  my  face.  Her  thoughts,  which 


Thomas  Moore. 


625 


bad  evidently  been  wandering,  became  collected,  and  in  her  joy  at 
my  safety,  her  sorrow  at  my  suffering,  she  forgot  entirely  the  fate 
that  impended  over  herself.  Love,  innocent  love,  alone  occupied 
all  her  thoughts,  and  the  warmth,  the  affection,  the  devotedness 
with  which  she  spoke,  oh  ! how  at  any  other  moment  I would  have 
blessed,  have  lingered  upon  every  word  ! 

But  the  time  flew  fast,  that  dreadful  morrow  was  approaching. 
Already  I saw  her  writhing  in  the  hands  of  the  torturer;  the  flames, 
the  racks,  the  wheels  were  before  my  eyes  ! Half  frantic  with  the 
fear  that  her  resolution  was  fixed,  I flung  myself  from  the  litter  in 
an  agony  of  weeping,  and  supplicated  her,  by  the  love  she  bore  me, 
by  the  happiness  that  awaited  us,  by  her  own  merciful  God,  who 
was  too  good  to  require  such  a sacrifice,  by  all  that  the  most  pas- 
sionate anxiety  could  dictate,  I implored  that  she  would  avert  from 
us  the  doom  that  was  coming,  and  but  for  once  comply  with  the 
vain  ceremony  demanded  of  her. 

Shrinking  from  me  as  I spoke,  but  with  a look  more  of  sorrow 
than  reproach,  “What,  thou,  too!”  she  said  mournfully,  “thou, 
into  whose  inmost  spirit  I had  fondly  hoped  the  same  light  had 
entered  as  into  my  own  ! No,  never  be  thou  leagued  with  them  who 
would  tempt  me  to  ‘ make  shipwreck  of  my  faith  ! ’ Thou,  who 
couldst  alone  bind  me  to  life,  use  not,  I entreat  thee,  thy  power, 
but  let  me  die  as  he  I serve  hath  commanded — die  for  the  truth.  Re- 
member the  holy  lessons  we  heard  together  on  those  nights,  those 
happy  nights,  when  both  the  present  and  future  smiled  upon  us, 
when  even  the  gift  of  eternal  life  came  more  welcome  to  my  soul 
from  the  glad  conviction  that  thou  wert  to  be  a sharer  in  its  bless- 
ings. Shall  I forfeit  now  that  divine  privilege  ? shall  I deny  the 
true  God  whom  we  then  learned  to  love  ? 

“No,  my  own  betrothed,”  she  continued,  pointing  to  the  two 
rings  on  her  finger,  “behold  these  pledges;  they  are  both  sacred. 
I should  have  been  as  true  to  thee  as  I am  now  to  Heaven ; nor  in 
that  life  to  which  I am  hastening  shall  our  love  be  forgotten. 
Should  the  baptism  of  fire  through  which  I shall  pass  to-morrow 
make  me  worthy  to  be  heard  before  the  throne  of  grace,  I will  in- 
tercede for  thy  soul ; I will  pray  that  it  may  yet  share  with  mine 
that  ‘inheritance  immortal  and  undefiled  ’ which  mercy  offers,  and 
that  thou  and  my  dear  mother  and  I — ” 

She  here  dropped  her  voice,  the  momentary  animation  with 
which  devotion  and  affection  had  inspired  her  vanished,  and  there 


626 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


came  a darkness  over  all  her  features,  a livid  darkness  like  the  ap- 
proach of  death,  that  made  me  shudder  through  every  limb.  Seiz- 
ing my  hand  convulsively,  and  looking  at  me  with  a fearful  eager- 
ness, as  if  anxious  to  hear  some  consoling  assurance  from  my  own 
lips,  “Believe  me,”  she  continued,  “not  all  the  torments  they  are 
preparing  for  me,  not  even  this  deep,  burning  pain  in  my  brow  to 
which  they  will  hardly  find  an  equal,  could  be  half  so  dreadful  to 
me  as  the  thought  that  I leave  thee  without — ” 

Here  her  voice  again  failed,  her  head  sunk  upon  my  arm,  and — 
merciful  God,  let  me  forget  what  I then  felt ! — I saw  that  she  was 
dying  ! Whether  I uttered  any  cry  I know  not,  but  the  tribune 
came  rushing  into  the  chamber,  and,  looking  on  the  maiden,  said, 
'with  a face  full  of  horror,  “ It  is  but  too  true  ! ” 

He  then  told  me,  in  a low  voice,  what  he  had  just  learned  from  the 
guardian  of  the  prison — that  the  band  round  the  young  Christian’s 
brow  was — oh  ! horrible — a compound  of  the  most  deadly  poison, 
the  hellish  invention  of  Orcus,  to  satiate  his  vengeance,  and  make  the 
fate  of  his  poor  victim  secure.  My  first  movement  was  to  untie  that 
fatal  wreath,  but  it  would  not  come  away — it  would  not  come  away  ! 

Roused  by  the  pain,  she  again  looked  in  my  face,  but,  unable  to 
speak,  took  hastily  from  her  bosom  the  small  silver  cross  which  she 
had  brought  with  her  from  my  cave.  Having  pressed  it  to  her  own 
lips,  she  held  it  anxiously  to  mine,  and  seeing  me  kiss  the  holy  sym- 
bol with  fervor,  looked  happy  and  smiled.  The  agony  of  death 
seem  to  have  passed  away ; there  came  suddenly  over  her  features  a 
heavenly  light,  some  share  of  which  I felt  descending  into  my  own 
soul,  and  in  a few  minutes  more  she  expired  in  my  arms. 


Here  ends  the  manuscript , but  on  the  outer  cover  is  found , in  the 
handwriting  of  a much  later  period,  the  following  notice,  extracted, 
as  it  appears,  from  some  Egyptian  martyr ology  : 

“ Alciphron,  an  Epicurean  philosopher,  converted  to  Christian- 
ity, a. D.  257,  by  a young  Egyptian  maiden,  who  suffered  martyr- 
dom in  that  year.  Immediately  upon  her  death  he  betook  himself 
to  the  desert  and  lived  a life,  it  is  said,  of  much  holiness  and  peni- 
tence. During  the  persecution  under  Dioclesian  his  sufferings  for 
the  faith  were  most  exemplary,  and  being  at  length,  at  an  advanced 
age,  condemned  to  hard  labor  for  refusing  to  comply  with  an  impe- 
rial edict,  he  died  at  the  Brass  Mines  of  Palestine  a.d.  297. 


EUGENE  O' CURRY. 


1 ‘He  belongs  to  the  race  of  the  giants  in  literary  research  and  industry,  a 
race  now  almost  extinct.  ” — Matthew  Arnold. 


UGENE  O’CURRY,  one  of  the  truest  men  and  greatest  scho- 


lars ever  produced  by  Ireland,  was  born  at  Dunhana,  near 
Carrigaholt,  county  of  Clare,  in  1796.  He  owed  little  to  schools ; 
he  was  a self-made,  self-taught  man,  all  his  vast  knowledge  being 
obtained  by  his  own  iron  efforts. 

While  young  he  obtained  a situation  in  Limerick,  the  duties  of 
which  required  unceasing  patience  and  attention.  It  was,  perhaps, 
a good  preparatory  training  for  the  future  critic  and  antiquarian. 
As  he  grew  in  years,  his  love  of  Irish  literature  increased.  His 
knowledge  of  the  Irish  language  was  thorough,  and  as  time  passed 
on  he  carefully  added  to  his  growing  stock  of  Irish  manuscripts. 

O’Curry  accidentally  became  acquainted  with  George  Smith,  the 
enterprising  publisher  of  “ The  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  and 
this  acquaintance  led  to  his  public  career  as  an  Irish  scholar.  He 
was  invited  to  Dublin,  and  from  1834  to  1841  he  held  a post  in 
the  antiquarian  department  of  the  Government  Ordnance  Survey 
of  Ireland.  He  was  then  employed  by  the  Royal  Irish  Academy, 
and  by  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  transcribing  and  cataloguing 
their  old  Irish  manuscripts. 

While  thus  engaged,  he  was  one  day  visited  by  the  poet  Moore, 
in  connection  with  which  is  told  an  anecdote  that  points  its  own 
moral. 

“The  first  volume  of  Moore’s  4 History,”’ 1 writes  O’Curry,  “was 
published  in  the  year  1835,  and  in  the  year  1839,  during  one  of  his 
visits  to  the  land  of  his  birth,  he,  in  company  with  his  old  and 
attached  friend,  Dr.  Petrie,  favored  me  with  quite  an  unexpected 
visit  at  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  then  in  Grafton  Street.  I was 
at  that  period  employed  on  the  Ordnance  Survey  of  Ireland,  and 
at  the  time  of  his  visit  happened  to  have  before  me  on  my  desk 
the  4 Books  of  Ballymote  ’ and  4 Lecain,’  the  4 Leabhar  Breac,’  4 The 
Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,’  and  many  other  ancient  books  for 


1 His  “History  of  Ireland.” 
627 


628 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


historical  research  and  reference.  I had  never  before  seen  Moore, 
and,  after  a brief  introduction  and  explanation  of  the  nature  of  my 
occupation  by  Dr.  Petrie,  and  seeing  the  formidable  array  of  so 
many  dark  and  time-worn  volumes  by  which  I was  surrounded,  he 
looked  a little  disconcerted,  but  after  a while  plucked  up  courage  to 
open  the  ‘ Book  of  Ballymote  ’ and  ask  what  it  was.  Dr.  Petrie 
and  myself  then  entered  into  a short  explanation  of  the  history  and 
character  of  the  books  then  present,  as  well  as  of  ancient  Gaedhlic 
documents  in  general.  Moore  listened  with  great  attention,  alter- 
nately scanning  the  books  and  myself,  and  then  asked  me,  in  a se- 
rious tone,  if  I understood  them,  and  how  I had  learned  to  do  so. 
Having  satisfied  him  upon  these  points,  he  turned  to  Dr.  Petrie 
and  said  : ‘ Petrie,  those  huge  tomes  could  not  have  been  written 
by  fools  or  for  any  foolish  purpose.  I never  knew  anything  about 
them  before,  and  I had  no  right  to  have  undertaken  the  “ History 
of  Ireland.  ” ’ ” 2 

Under  the  Brehon  Law  Commission,  he  and  Dr.  O’Donovan  were 
engaged,  in  1853,  to  transcribe  and  translate  the  ancient  laws  of 
Ireland  from  originals  in  Trinity  College  and  the  British  Museum* 
These  O’Curry  had  himself,  in  great  part,  discovered,  and  he  was 
the  first  modern  scholar  able  to  decipher  and  explain  them. 

In  1854,  on  the  establishment  of  the  Catholic  University  in  Dub- 
lin, his  eminent  abilities  were  recognized,  and  he  was  appointed  to 
fill  the  chair  of  Irish  history  and  archaeology.  With  his  whole 
soul  Professor  O’Curry  applied  himself  to  the  unwrought  field  of 
his  department,  and  the  result  was  that  his  rich,  patient,  and  mas- 
sive intellect  gave  to  Ireland  and  to  the  world  works  that  live  “to 
perish  never.”  In  1860  he  published  his  celebrated  “Lectures 
on  the  Manuscript  Materials  of  Ancient  Irish  History  ” — a deeply- 
interesting  and  profound  volume,  which  takes  its  place  among  the 
greatest  critical  and  historical  works  of  modern  times. 

When  the  summons  of  death  came,  the  pious  and  learned  Pro- 
fessor was  still  engaged  in  preparing  for  the  press  his  “ Lectures  on 
the  Social  Customs,  Manners,  and  Life  of  the  People  of  Ancient 
Erinn.”  His  last  appearance  in  public  was  in  the  procession  of 
Sunday,  July  27,  1862,  at  the  laying  of  the  first  stone  of  the  new 
building  of  the  Catholic  University.  “ On  the  following  Tuesday 
night,”  writes  one  of  his  biographers,  “ having  spent  a happy  even- 
ing with  his  children,  he  retired  to  rest  apparently  in  his  usual 

3 “ Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Irish  History,”  lect.  vii. 


Eugene  O'  Curry. 


629 

health.  A few  hours  later,  his  servant,  hearing  an  unusual  noise, 
hastened  to  his  room,  and  found  the  Professor  suffering  from  a 
pain  in  the  heart,  which  he  described  as  gradually  extending  up- 
wards. In  twenty  minutes  O’Curry  was  no  more  !” 

The  “ Lectures  on  the  Manuscript  Materials  of  Irish  History”  is 
an  octavo  volume  of  722  pages,  embracing  twenty-one  lectures  and  a 
large  appendix.8  Of  this  immortal  book  O’Curry  says,  in  his  own 
simple,  modest  way  : “ I may  claim  for  it  at  least  the  poor  merit 
of  being  the  first  effort  ever  made  to  bring  within  the  view  of  the 
student  of  Irish  history  and  archaeology  an  honest,  if  not  a com- 
plete, analysis  of  all  the  materials  of  that  yet  unwritten  story,  which 
lies  accessible,  indeed,  in  our  native  language,  but  the  great  body 
of  which — the  flesh  and  blood  of  all  the  true  history  of  Ireland — 
remains  to  this  day  unexamined  and  unknown  to  the  world.” 3  4 
His  last  great  work-published  in  1873,  under  the  editorship 
of  Dr.  W.  K.  O’Sullivan — is  in  three  large  volumes.  Its  title  is, 
“ Lectures  on  the  Social  Customs,  Manners,  and  Life  of  the  Ancient 
Irish.”  It  embraces  the  detailed  examination  of : (1)  the  system 
of  legislation  and  government  in  ancient  Ireland  ; (2)  the  system  of 
ranks  and  classes  in  society  ; (3)  the  religious  system — if  Druidism 
can  be  so  styled — of  the  ancient  Irish ; (4)  the  education  of  the 
people,  with  some  account  of  their  learning  in  ancient  times ; (5) 
the  military  system,  including  the  system  of  military  education, 
and  some  account  of  the  Irish  chivalry  or  Orders  of  Champions ; 

(6)  the  nature,  use,  and  manufacture  of  arms  used  in  ancient  times ; 

(7)  the  buildings  of  ancient  times,  both  public,  military,  and  do- 
mestic, and  the  furniture  of  the  latter ; (8)  the  materials  and  forms 
of  dress  ; (9)  the  ornaments  used  by  all  classes  and  their  manufac- 
ture ; (10)  the  musical  instruments  of  the  ancient  Irish,  with  some 
account  of  their  cultivation  of  music ; (11)  the  agriculture  and  im- 
plements of  ancient  times;  (12)  commerce  of  the  ancient  Irish; 
and  (13)  their  funeral  rites  and  places  of  sepulture.  This  great 
work — the  result  of  giant  labor,  profound  learning,  and  prodigious 
research — is  a complement  to  the  “ Lectures  on  the  Manuscript  Ma- 
terials of  Ancient  Irish  History.” 

In  person  Professor  O’Curry  was  tall  and  well-proportioned.  He 
possessed  a powerful  mind  in  a powerful  body.  The  Hon.  T.  D. 

3 This  valuable  appendix,  among  other  things,  contains  fac- simile  specimens  of  ancient 
Irish  MSS.,  extending  from  a.d.  430  to  1861. 

4 Preface  to  his  “ Lectures.”’ 


630  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

McG-ee  thus  describes  the  venerable  scholar  at  work  : “In  the  re- 
cess of  a distant  window  there  was  a half-bald  head  bent  busily 
over  a desk,  the  living  master-key  to  all  this  voiceless  learning.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  be  struck  at  the  first  glance  with  the  long, 
oval,  well-spanned  cranium  as  it  glistened  in  the  streaming  sun- 
light ; and  when  the  absorbed  scholar  lifted  up  his  face,  massive, 
as  became  such  a capital,  but  lighted  with  every  kindly  inspiration, 
it  was  quite  impossible  not  to  feel  sympathetically  drawn  towards 
the  man.  There,  as  we  often  saw  him  in  the  flesh,  we  see  him  still 
in  fancy.  Behind  that  desk,  equipped  with  inkstands,  acids,  and 
microscope,  and  covered  with  half-legible  vellum  folios,  rose  cheer- 
fully and  buoyantly  to  instruct  the  ignorant,  to  correct  the  preju- 
diced, or  to  bear  with  the  petulant  visitor,  the  first  of  living  Celtic 
scholars  and  palaeographers,  Eugene  O’Curry.” 

The  character  of  this  illustrious  man  may  be  summed  up  in  a few 
words.  His  vast  learning  was  only  exceeded  by  his  virtue  and 
modest  simplicity.  A pious,  faithful  Catholic,  and  a true  Irishman, 
he  dedicated  his  splendid  intellect  to  his  Cod,  to  truth,  and  to  his 
country.  He  did  more  than  all  the  scholars  of  modern  times  to 
elevate  ancient  Ireland  to  its  real  place  in  the  world  of  literature. 
And  if  the  just,  as  the  Holy  Book  assures  us,  will  be  held  in  ever- 
lasting remembrance,  then  the  virtuous,  learned,  patriotic,  and 
great-souled  Eugene  O’Curry  shall  never  be  forgotten.  As  the  chief 
of  Irish  critics  and  the  prince  of  Irish  scholars,  he  will  evermore 
shine  as  a brilliant  star  in  the  literary  firmament  of  the  “ Isle  of 
Saints  and  Sages.” 

“ Blessings  of  all  saints  in  glory 
We  invoke  for  him  who  drew 
Old  Egyptian  seeds  of  story 
From  the  grave,  to  bloom  anew  ! ” 5 


LECTURE  ON  THE  CHIEF  EXISTING  ANCIENT  IRISH  BOOKS.® 

We  have  now  disposed  of  the  chief  national  annals,  and  we  have 
noticed  the  other  historical  works  of  the  last  and  greatest  of  the  An- 
nalists. But  though  in  some  respects  undoubtedly  the  most  im- 
portant, the  compositions  we  have  been  considering  form,  after  all, 

* The  late  gifted  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee  wrote  two  beautiful  poems  on  O’Curry.  The 
foregoing  is  a stanza  from  one  of  them.  See  “ Poems”  of  T.  I).  McGee,  pp.  455-460. 

6 This  is  Lecture  IX.  of  “ Lectures  on  the  MS.  Materials  of  Ancient  Irish  History.” 
It  was  delivered  in  the  Catholic  University  of  Ireland,  Dublin,  on  July  10,  1856. 


Eli  gene  O' Curry. 


631 

but  a small  portion  of  the  immense  mass  of  materials  which  exist 
in  Irish  manuscripts  for  the  elucidation  of  our  history. 

Fortunately,  of  these  great  books  we  have  many  still  remaining 
to  us  in  perfect  preservation.  And  there  is  not  one  of  you  to  whom 
the  originals  themselves,  notwithstanding  the  wear  and  tear  of  cen- 
turies, may  not  easily  become  intelligible,  so  beautifully  was  the 
scribe’s  work  performed  in  early  days  in  Ireland,  whenever  you  shall 
be  disposed  to  devote  but  half  the  time  to  the  study  of  the  noble 
old  language  of  Erinn  which  you  devote  to  that  of  the  great  classic 
tongues  of  other  ancient  people.  A visit  to  the  library  of  the  Royal 
Irish  Academy  or  of  Trinity  College  will,  however,  little  serve  to 
make  you  aware  of  the  vast  extent  of  the  treasures  which  lie  in  the 
dark-written,  musty-looking  old  books  you  are  shown  there  as  curi- 
osities, unless  you  shall  provide  yourselves  with  the  key  which  some 
acquaintance  with  their  characters  and  language  alone  will  afford. 
In  the  short  account,  therefore,  which  I am  about  to  lay  before  you 
of  the  great  vellum  books  and  MSS.  in  Dublin,  I shall  add  in  every 
case  some  approximate  calculation  of  their  length  by  reference  to 
the  number  of  pages  each  book  would  fill  if  printed  (the  Irish  text 
alone)  in  large  quarto  volumes,  such  as  those  of  O’Donovan’s  “ An- 
nals of  the  Four  Masters.”  And  when  you  have  heard  of  what  mat- 
ter the  contents  of  these  books  consist,  and  reflect  upon  the  length 
to  which,  if  printed  in  full,  they  would  extend,  I think  you  will 
agree  with  me  that  all  that  I have  said  upon  the  value  of  our  MS. 
treasures  will,  on  better  acquaintance  with  them,  be  found  to  fall 
far  short  of  the  reality. 

The  first  of  these  books  that  merits  notice,  because  it  is  the  oldest, 
is  that  which  is  known  by  the  name  “ Leabhar  na  h-Uidre,”  or 
the  “ Book  of  the  Dun  Cow,”  to  which  I have  already  briefly  alluded 
in  a former  lecture.  Of  this  book,  so  often  referred  to  in  Michael 
O’Clery’s  prefaces,  we  have  now,  unfortunately,  but  a fragment  re- 
maining, a fragment  which  consists,  however,  of  138  folio  pages, 
and  is  written  on  very  old  vellum. 

The  name  and  period  of  writing  the  book  of  which  it  is  a frag- 
ment might  perhaps  be  now  lost  for  ever  if  the  curious  history  of  the 
book  itself  had  not  led  to,  and  in  some  degree,  indeed,  necessitated, 
their  preservation.  All  that  we  know  about  it  is  found  in  two 
entries  written  at  different  periods  in  a blank  part  of  the  second 
column  of  the  first  page  of  folio  35.  Of  the  first  of  these  curious 
entries  the  following  is  a literal  translation  : 


632  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

“ Pray  for  Maelmuire , the  son  of  Ceilechair — that  is,  the  son  of  the 
son  of  Co nn-na-m-Bocht — who  wrote  and  collected  this  book  from 
various  hooks.  Pray  for  Donnell,  the  son  of  Murtoch , son  of  Don- 
nell, son  of  Tadliglor  Teig , son  of  Brian,  son  of  Andreas,  son  01 
Brian  Luighneack,  son  of  Turlock  Mor  (or  the  Great)  O’Conor. 
It  was  this  Donnell  that  directed  the  renewal  of  the  name  of  the 
person  who  wrote  this  beautiful  book,  by  Sigraidh  O’Cuirnin;  and 
it  is  not  as  well  for  us  to  leave  our  blessing  with  the  owner  of  this 
book  as  to  send  it  to  him  by  the  mouth  of  any  other  person.  And  it 
is  a week  from  this  day  to  Easter  Saturday,  and  a week  from  yes- 
terday to  the  Friday  of  the  Crucifixion,  and  (there  will  be)  two 
Golden  Fridays  on  that  Friday — that  is,  the  Friday  of  the  Crucifix- 
ion— and  this  is  greatly  wondered  at  by  some  learned  persons.” 

The  following  is  the  translation  of  the  second  entry,  same  page 
and  column : 

“A  prayer  here  for  Aedh  Ruadh  (Hugh  the  Bed-Haired),  the  son 
of  Niall  Garili  O’Donnell,  who  forcibly  recovered  this  book  from 
the  people  of  Connacht,  and  the  ‘ Leabhar  Gearr ’ (or  ‘ Short  Book  ’) 
along  with  it  after  they  had  been  hidden  away  from  us  from  the 
time  of  Catlial  og  O’Conor  to  the  time  of  Bory  son  of  Brian 
(O’Conor),  and  ten  lords  ruled  over  Carbury  (or  Sligo)  between 
them.  And  it  was  in  the  time  of  Conor,  the  son  of  Hugh  O’Don- 
nell, that  they  were  taken  to  the  West,  and  this  is  the  way  in  which 
they  were  so  taken : the  ‘ Short  Book  ’ in  ransom  for  O’Doherty, 
and  ‘ Leabhar  na  h-TJidhre  ’ — that  is,  the  present  book — in  ransom 
of  the  son  of  O’Donnell’s  chief  family  historian,  who  wTas  captured 
by  Catkal  and  carried  away  as  a pledge,  and  thus  they  (the  books) 
were  away  from  the  Cenel  Conaill  (or  O’Donnells)  from  this  time  of 
Conor  (O’Donnell)  to  the  (present)  time  of  Hugh.” 

There  is  some  mistake  in  this  last  memorandum.  Conor,  the  son 
of  Hugh  O’Donnell,  in  whose  time  the  books  are  stated  here  to  have 
been  carried  into  Connaught,  was  slain  by  his  brother  Niall  in  the 
year  1342,  according  to  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  and  the 
capture  of  John  O’Doherty  by  Catlial  6g  O’Conor,  at  the  battle  of 
Ballyshannon,  took  place  in  the  year  1359.  The  proper  reading 
would  therefore  seem  to  be  that  “ Leabhar  na  h-Uidhre  ” passed  into 
Connacht  first  before  Conor  O’Donnell’s  death,  in  1342,  and  that  the 
“Leabhar  Gearr,”  or  “Short  Book,”  was  given  in  ransom  for 
O’Doherty  in  1359,  Conor  O’Donnell’s  reign  covering  both  periods,  as 
the  writer  does  not  seem  to  recognize  the  reign  of  the  fratricide,  Niall. 


E ugene  O'  Ctc  rry. 


633 


The  following  passage  from  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters” 
will  make  this  last  entry  more  intelligible,  and  show  that  it  was 
made  in  Donegal!,  in  the  year  1470  : 

“ A.D.  1470.  The  Castle  of  Sligo  was  taken  after  a long  siege  by 
O’Donnell — that  is,  Hugh  the  Red-Haired — from  Donnell,  the  son 
of  Eoghan  O’Conor.  O11  this  occasion  he  obtained  all  that  he  de- 
manded by  way  of  reparation,  besides  receiving  tokens  of  submis- 
sion and  tribute  from  Lower  Connacht.  It  was  on  this  occasion, 
too,  that  he  recovered  the  book  called  £ Leabhar  Gearr  ’ (or  the 
£ Short  Book’),  and  another,  £ Leabhar  na  h-Uidhre/  as  well  as 
the  chairs  of  O’Donnell  og  (O’Donnell),  which  had  been  carried 
thither  in  the  time  of  John,  the  son  of  Conor,  son  of  Hugh,  son  of 
Donnell  og  O’Donnell.” 

In  reference  to  the  first  entry,  it  must  have  been  made  wnile 
the  book  was  in  Connacht  by  Sigraidh  O’  Cuirnin,  who  was, 
according  to  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,”  a learned 
poet  of  Briefney,  and  died  in  the  year  1347,  and  he  must  have 
made  the  entry  in  the  year  1345,  as  that  was  the  only  year  at  this 
particular  period  in  which  Good  Friday  happened  to  fall  on  the 
Festival  of  the  Annunciation,  on  the  25th  of  March.  This  fact  is 
further  borne  out  by  an  entry  in  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,” 
which  records  that  Conor  O’Donnell,  chief  of  Tirconnell,  died  in  the 
year  1342,  after  a reign  of  nine  years,  and  we  have  seen  from  the 
entry  that  it  was  in  his  time  that  this  book  must  have  been  carried 
into  Connacht.  According  to  the  same  “Annals,”  Donnell,  the  son 
of  Murtach  O’Conor,  died  in  the  year  1437,  by  whose  direction 
O’ Cuirnin  renewed  the  name  of  the  original  writer,  which  even  at 
this  early  period  seems  to  have  disappeared,  several  leaves  of  this 
book,  and  amongst  others  that  which  contained  this  entry,  having 
even  then  been  lost.  Of  the  original  compiler  and  writer  of  the 
“Leabhar  na  h-Uidhre”  I have  been  able  to  learn  nothing  more 
than  the  following  brief  and  melancholy  notice  of  his  death  in  the 
“Annals  of  the  Four  Masters”  at  the  year  1106  : 

“ Maelmuiri , son  of  the  son  of  Conn-na-m-Bocht,  was  killed  in 
the  middle  of  the  great  stone  church  of  Cluainmacnois  by  a party 
of  robbers.” 

A memorandum  in  the  original  hand  at  the  top  of  folio  45 
clearly  identifies  the  writer  of  the  book  with  the  person  whose 
death  is  recorded  in  the  passage  just  quoted  from  the  “ Annals  ” ; 
it  is  partly  in  Latin  and  partly  in  Gaedhlic , as  follows  : 


634  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

“ This  is  a trial  of  his  pen  here  by  Maelmuiri , son  of  the  son  of 
Conn.” 

This  Conn-na-m-Bocht,  or  “Conn  of  the  Poor/’  as  he  was  called, 
from  his  devotion  to  their  relief  and  care,  was  a lay  religious  of 
Clonmacnois,  and  the  father  and  founder  of  a distinguished  family 
of  scholars,  lay  and  ecclesiastical.  lie  appears  to  have  been  the 
founder  and  superior  of  a community  of  poor  lay  monks  of  the 
CeiU-De  (or  Culclee)  order  in  connection  with  that  great  establish- 
ment, and  he  died  in  the  year  1059. 

The  contents  of  the  MS.  as  they  stand  now  are  of  a mixed  charac- 
ter, historical  and  romantic,  and  relate  to  the  ante-Christian  as  well 
as  the  Christian  period.  The  book  begins  with  a fragment  of  the 
Book  of  Genesis,  part  of  which  was  always  prefixed  to  the  “ Book  of 
Invasions  (or  Ancient  Colonizations)  of  Erinn  ” for  genealogical  pur- 
poses (and  there  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  a full  tract  on  this 
subject  was  contained  in  the  book  so  late  as  the  year  1631,  as  Fa- 
ther Michael  O’Clery  quotes  it  in  his  new  compilation  of  the  “ Book 
of  Invasions,”  made  in  that  year  for  Brian  Maguire). 

This  is  followed  by  a fragment  of  the  “ History  of  the  Britons,”  by 
Kennius,  translated  into  Gaeclhlic  by  Gillci  Caomhain , the  poet  and 
chronologist,  who  died  a.d.  1072.  This  tract  was  published  by  the 
Irish  Archaeological  Society  in  1848. 

The  next  important  piece  is  the  very  ancient  elegy  written  by  the 
poet  Dalian  Fargaill  on  the  death  of  St.  Colum  Cille  in  the  year 
592.  It  is  remarkable  that  even  at  the  early  period  of  the  compila- 
tion of  the  “ Leabhar  na  h-Uidhre,”  this  celebrated  poem  should 
have  required  a gloss  to  make  it  intelligible.  The  gloss,  which  is,  as 
usual,  interlined,  is  not  very  copious,  but  it  is  most  important  both 
in  a philological  and  historical  point  of  view,  because  of  the  many 
more  ancient  compositions  quoted  in  it  for  the  explanation  of  words, 
which  compositions,  therefore,  must  then  have  been  still  in  ex- 
istence. 

The  elegy  is  followed  by  fragments  of  the  ancient  historic  tale  of 
the  “ Mesca  Uladh”  or  “Inebriety  of  the  Ultonians,”  who,  in  a 
fit  of  excitement  after  a great  feast  at  the  royal  palace  of  Emania, 
made  a sudden  and  furious  march  into  Munster,  where  they  burned 
the  palace  of  Teamhair  Luachra  in  Kerry,  then  the  residence  of 
Curoi  Mac  Daire,  King  of  West  Munster.  This  tract  abounds  in 
curious  notices  of  topography  as  well  as  in  illustrations  to,  and  de- 
criptions  of,  social  habits  and  manners. 


Eugene  O' Curry. 


635 


Next  come  fragments  of  “ Tain  Bo  Dartadha  ” and  the  “Tain 
Bo  Flidais,”  both  cattle  spoils  arising  out  of  the  celebrated  Cattle 
Spoil  of  Cuailgue.  Next  comes  the  story  of  the  wanderings  of 
Maelduin’s  ship  in  the  Atlantic  for  three  years  and  seven  months  in 
the  eighth  century.  These  are  followed  by  imperfect  copies  of  the 
“Tain  Bo  Chuailque,”  or  “Great  Cattle  Spoil  of  Chuailque,” 
the  “ Bruighean  Da  Dearga,”  and  death  of  the  monarch  Conaire 
Mor , a history  of  the  great  pagan  cemeteries  of  Erinn  and  of  the 
various  old  books  from  which  this  and  other  pieces  were  compiled, 
poems  by  Flann  of  Monasterbaice  and  others,  together  with  various 
other  pieces  of  history  and  historic  romance,  chiefly  referring  to 
the  ante-Christian  period,  and  especially  that  of  the  “ Tuatha  De 
Danann.”  This  most  valuable  MS.  belongs  to  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy.  If  printed  at  length,  the  text  of  it  would  make  about 
five  hundred  pages  of  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.”  The  next 
ancient  book  which  I shall  treat  of  is  that  at  present  known  under 
the  name  of  the  “Book  of  Leinster.”  It  can  be  shown  from 
various  internal  evidences  that  this  volume  was  either  compiled  or 
transcribed  in  the  first  half  of  the  twelfth  century  by  Finn  Mac- 
Gorman,  Bishop  of  Kildare,  who  died  in  the  year  1160,  and  that  it 
was  compiled  by  order  of  Aodh  Mac  Crimhthainn,  the  tutor  of  the 
notorious  Dermod  Mac  Murroch , that  King  of  Leinster  who  first 
invited  Earl  Strongbow  and  the  Anglo-Normans  into  Ireland  in  the 
year  1169.  The  book  was  evidently  compiled  for  Dermod  under 
the  superintendence  of  his  tutor,  MacGorman,  who  had  probably 
been  a fellow-pupil  of  the  king.  In  support  of  this  assertion  I 
need  only  transcribe  the  following  entry,  which  occurs  in  the  origi- 
nal hand  at  the  end  of  the  folio  202,  page  b,  of  the  book  : 

“ Benediction  and  health  from  Finn,  the  Bishop  of  Kildare,  to 
Aedli  (Hugh)  Mac  Crimhthainn , the  tutor  of  the  chief  King  of 
Leth  Mogha  Nuadat  (or  of  Leinster  or  Munster),  successor  of  Oolum, 
the  son  of  Crimhthainn,  and  chief  historian  of  Leinster  in  wisdom, 
intelligence,  and  the  cultivation  of  books,  knowledge,  and  learn- 
ing. And  I write  the  conclusion  of  this  little  tale  for  thee,  0 acute 
Aedh  (Hugh),  thou  possessor  of  the  sparkling  intellect.  May  it  be 
long  before  we  are  without  thee.  It  is  my  desire  that  thou  shouldst 
be  always  with  us.  Let  Mac  Louan’s  book  of  poems  be  given  to 
me,  that  I may  understand  the  sense  of  the  poems  that  are  in  it, 
and  farewell  in  Christ,”  etc. 

This  note  must  be  received  as  sufficient  evidence  to  bring  the  date 


636  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

of  this  valuable  manuscript  witnin  the  period  of  a man’s  life  whose 
death  as  a Catholic  bishop  happened  in  the  year  1160,  and  who  was, 
I believe,  consecrated  to  the  ancient  see  of  Kildare  in  the  year 
1148,  long  before  which  period,  of  course,  he  must  have  been  em- 
ployed to  write  out  this  book.  Of  the  Aedh  Mac  Crimhthainn  for 
whom  he  wrote  it,  I have  not  been  able  to  ascertain  anything  more 
than  what  appears  above,  but  he  must  have  flourished  early  in  the 
twelfth  century  to  be  the  tutor  of  Dermocl  Mac  Murroch , who,  in 
concert  with  O’Brien,  had  led  the  men  of  Leinster  against  the 
Danes  of  Waterford  so  far  back  as  the  year  1137. 

That  this  book  belonged  either  to  Dermod  Mac  Murroch  himself 
or  to  some  person  who  had  him  warmly  at  heart  will  appear  plainly 
from  the  following  memorandum,  which  is  written  in  a strange  but 
ancient  hand  in  the  top  margin  of  folio  200,  page  a : 

“ 0 Virgin  Mary  ! it  is  a great  deed  that  has  been  done  in  Erinn 
this  day,  the  kalends  of  August — viz.,  Dermod,  the  son  of  Donnoch 
Mac  Murroch , King  of  Leinster  and  of  the  Danes  of  Dublin,  to  have 
been  banished  over  the  sea  eastwards  by  the  men  of  Erinn.  Uch, 
uch,  0 Lord  ! what  shall  I do  ?” 

The  book  consists  at  present  of  over  four  hundred  pages  of  large 
folio  vellum,  but  there  are  many  leaves  of  the  old  pagination 
missing. 

To  give  anything  like  a satisfactory  analysis  of  this  book  would 
take  at  least  one  whole  lecture.  I cannot,  therefore,  within  my 
present  limited  space,  do  more  than  glance  at  its  general  character, 
and  point  by  name  only  to  a few  of  the  many  important  pieces  pre- 
served in  it. 

It  begins,  as  usual,  with  a Book  of  Invasions  of  Erinn,  but  without 
the  book  of  Genesis,  after  which  the  succession  of  the  monarchs  to 
the  year  1169,  and  the  succession  and  obituary  of  the  provincial 
and  other  minor  kings,  etc.  Then  follow  specimens  of  ancient 
versification,  poems  on  Tara,  and  an  ancient  plan  and  explanation 
of  the  Teach  Midliechuarta  or  Banqueting  Hall  of  that  ancient  royal 
city.  These  poems  and  plan  have  been  published  by  Dr.  Petrie  in 
his  paper  on  the  history  of  Tara,  printed  in  the  “ Transactions  of 
the  Royal  Irish  Academy  for  1839,”  vol.  xviii.  After  these  came 
poems  on  the  wars  of  the  Leinstermen,  the  Ulstermen,  and  the 
Munstermen  in  great  numbers,  many  of  them  of  the  highest  histo- 
ric interest  and  value,  and  some  prose  pieces  and  small  poems  of 
Leinster  of  great  antiquity,  some  of  them,  as  I believe,  certainly 


E u (^ciic  O'  Curry. 


6 37 


■written  by  Dubhthach,  the  great  antiquarian  and  poet,  who  was 
St.  Patrick’s  first  convert  at  Tara.  After  these  a fine  copy  of 
the  history  of  the  celebrated  battle  of  Boss  na  High  on  the  Boyne, 
fought  between  the  men  of  Leinster  and  Ulster  at  the  beginning  of 
the  Christian  era;  a copy  of  the  “ Mesca  Uladhor,”  “Inebriety  of 
the  Ultonians,”  imperfect  at  the  end,  but  which  can  be  made  per- 
fect by  the  fragment  of  it  already  mentioned  in  “Leabhar  na  h- 
Uidhre”;  a fine  copy  of  the  origin  of  the  Boromean  Tribute  and 
the  battles  that  ensued  down  to  its  remission  ; a fragment  of  the 
battle  of  Cennabrat  in  Munster,  with  the  defeat  of  Mac  Con 
Oilioll  Oluim ; Mac  Con’s  flight  into  Scotland,  his  return  afterwards 
with  a large  force  of  Scottish  and  British  adventurers,  his  landing  in 
the  Bay  of  Galway,  and  the  ensuing  battle  of  Magh  Mucruimhe, 
fought  between  him  and  his  maternal  uncle,  Art,  the  Monarch  of 
Erinn,  in  which  battle  the  latter  was  defeated  and  killed,  as  well  as 
the  seven  sons  of  Oilioll  Oluim.  A variety  of  curious  and  important 
short  tracts  relating  to  Munster  are  also  to  be  found  in  the  book  of 
Leinster,  besides  this  last  one,  up  to  the  middle  of  the  eighth  cen- 
tury. This  volume  likewise  contains  a small  fragment  of  “ Cormac’s 
Glossaiy,”  copied  perhaps  with  many  more  of  these  pieces  from  the 
veritable  “ Soltair  of  Cashel”  itself  ; also  a fragment — unfortunately 
a very  small  one,  (the  first  folio  only) — of  the  wars  of  the  Danes 
and  the  Gaedhils  ( i.e .,  the  Irish);  a copy  of  the  “Dinnsenchus,”  a 
celebrated  ancient  topographical  tract  which  was  compiled  at  Tara 
about  the  year  550  ; several  ancient  poems  on  universal  geography 
of  the  great  Milesian  tribes  and  families,  particularly  those  of  Lein- 
ster ; and,  lastly,  an  ample  list  of  the  early  saints  of  Erinn,  with 
their  pedigrees  and  affinities,  and  with  copious  references  to  the 
situations  of  their  churches. 

This  is  but  an  imperfect  sketch  of  this  invaluable  MS.,  and  I 
think  I may  say  with  sorrow  that  there  is  not  in  all  Europe  any  na- 
tion but  this  of  ours  that  would  not  long  since  have  made  a national 
literary  fortune  out  of  such  a volume,  had  any  other  country  in  Europe 
been  fortunate  enough  to  possess  such  an  heirloom  of  history. 

This  volume  forms  at  present  part  of  the  rich  store  of  ancient 
Irish  literature  preserved  in  the  library  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
and  if  printed  at  length,  the  Gaedhlic  text  of  it  would  make  two 
thousand  pages  of  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

The  next  book  in  order  of  antiquity  of  which  I shall  treat  is  the 
well-known  “Book  of  Bally  mote.” 


638  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

This  noble  volume,  though  defective  in  a few  places,  still  consists 
of  two  hundred  and  fifty-one  leaves,  or  five  hundred  and  two  pages, 
of  the  largest  folio  vellum,  equal  to  about  two  thousand  five  hun- 
dred pages  of  the  printed  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.”  It  was 
written  by  different  persons,  but  chiefly  by  Soloman  O’Droma  and 
Manus  O’Duigenana,  and  we  find  it  stated  at  folio  626  that  it  was 
written  at  Ballymote  (in  the  county  of  Sligo),  in  the  house  of 
Tomaltach  og  Mac  Donogh,  lord  of  Corann,  in  that  country,  at  the 
time  Torlogh  og,  the  son  of  Hugh  O’ Conor,  was  King  of  Connacht, 
and  Charles  O’Conor  of  Belanagar  has  written  in  it  the  date  1391 
as  the  precise  year  in  which  this  part  of  the  book  was  written.  This 
book,  like  all  our  old  books  still  existing,  is  but  a compilation  col- 
lected from  various  sources,  and  must,  like  them,  be  held  to  repre- 
sent to  a great  extent  several  older  compilations. 

It  begins  with  an  imperfect  copy  of  the  ancient  “ Leabhar  Gabhala,” 
or  “ Book  of  Invasions  of  Erinn,”  differing  in  a few  details  from  other 
copies  of  the  same  tract.  This  is  followed  by  a series  of  ancient 
chronological,  historical,  and  genealogical  pieces  in  prose  and  verse. 
Then  follow  the  pedigrees  of  Irish  saints,  the  history  and  pedi- 
grees of  all  the  great  families  of  the  Milesian  race,  with  the  various 
minor  tribes  and  families  which  have  branched  off  from  them  in  the 
succession  of  ages,  so  that  there  scarcely  exists  an  O’  or  a Mac  at 
the  present  day  who  may  not  find  in  this  book  the  name  of  the  par- 
ticular remote  ancestor  whose  name  he  bears  as  a surname,  as  well 
as  the  time  at  which  he  lived,  what  he  was,  and  from  what  more 
ancient  line  he  again  was  descended.  These  genealogies  may  ap- 
pear unimportant  to  ordinary  readers,  but  those  who  have  assayed 
to  illustrate  any  branch  of  the  ancient  history  of  this  country,  and 
who  could  have  availed  themselves  of  them,  have  found  in  them  the 
most  authentic,  accurate,  and  important  auxiliaries  ; in  fact,  a his- 
tory which  has  remained  as  long  unwritten  as  that  of  ancient 
Erinn  could  never  he  satisfactorily  compiled  at  all  without  them. 
Of  these  genealogies  I shall  have  more  to  say  in  a subsequent 
lecture. 

These  family  histories  in  the  “Book  of  Ballymote,”  by  some  ac- 
counts of  Conor  Mac  Nessa,  King  of  Ulster;  of  Aitliirne  the  Sa- 
tirist ; the  tragical  death  of  the  beautiful  lady  Luaidet  j the  story 
of  the  adventures  of  the  monarch  Cormac  Mac  Art  in  fairy-land  ; 
some  curious  and  valuable  sketches  of  the  death  of  the  monarch 
Crimhthenn  Mor ; a tract  on  the  accession  of  Niall  of  the  Nine 


Eugene  O' Curry. 


639 


Hostages  to  the  monarchy,  his  wars  and  the  death  of  his  brother 
Fiachra  at  Forraidh  (in  the  present  county  of  Westmeath),  on 
his  return  mortally  wounded  from  the  battle  of  Caenraighe  (Kenry, 
in  the  present  county  of  Limerick). 

Some  of  these  pieces  are  doubtless  mixed  up  in  mythological 
fable,  but  as  the  main  facts  as  well  as  all  the  actors  are  real,  and  as 
to  these  mythological  fables  may  be  traced  up  many  of  the  charac- 
teristic popular  customs  and  superstitions  still  remaining  among 
us,  these  pieces  must  be  looked  upon  as  materials  of  no  ordinary 
value  by  the  historical  and  antiquarian  investigator.  After  these  fol- 
low tracts  in  prose  and  verse,  on  the  names,  parentage,  and  hus- 
bands of  the  most  remarkable  women  in  Irish  history,  down  to  the 
twelfth  century ; a tract  on  the  mothers  of  the  Irish  saints ; a tract 
on  the  origin  of  the  names  and  surnames  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  in  ancient  Irish  history;  and  an  ancient  law  tract  on  the  rights, 
privileges,  rewards,  and  so  forth,  of  the  learned  classes,  such  as  the 
ecclesiastical  orders,  the  orders  of  poets,  teachers,  judges,  etc. 
After  this  we  have  the  ancient  translation  into  the  Gaedhlic  of  the 
“ History  of  the  Britons,”  by  Nennius , before  alluded  to  as  having 
been  published  a few  years  ago  by  the  Irish  Archaeological  So- 
ciety ; an  ancient  grammar  and  prosody,  richly  illustrated  with 
specimens  of  an  ancient  Irish  versification  ; a tract  on  the  Agham 
alphabets  of  the  ancient  Irish,  with  illustrations  (about  to  be  pub- 
lished shortly  by  the  Archaeological  Society,  edited  by  my  respected 
friend,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Graves,  F.T.C.D.)  ; the  book  of  reciprocal 
rights  and  tributes  of  the  monarch  and  provincial  kings,  and  some 
minor  chiefs  of  ancient  Ireland  (a  most  important  document,  pub- 
lished for  the  first  time  in  1847  by  the  Celtic  Society)  ; a tract  on 
the  ancient  history,  chiefs,  and  chieftains  of  Corea  Laoi , or  O’Dris- 
coll’s  country,  in  the  county  of  Cork  (published  also  by  the  Celtic 
Society  in  their  “Miscellany”  for  1849)  ; a copy  of  the  “ Dinnsen- 
chus,”  or  great  topographical  tract ; and  a translation  or  account  of 
ancient  Gaedhlic,  with  a critical  collation  of  various  texts  of  the 
Argonautic  expedition  and  the  Trojan  war. 

The  book  ends  with  the  adventures  of  iEneas  after  the  destruc- 
tion of  Troy. 

The  Gaedhlic  text  of  this  great  book,  which  belongs  to  the  Li- 
brary of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  would  make  about  2,500  pages 
of  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

As  I have  in  a former  lecture  given  a free  analysis  of  the  MS. 


640  The  Prose  ci7id  Poetry  of  Ireland 

commonly  called  the  “ Leabliar  Breac  ” (or  “ Speckled  Book”),  an 
ancient  vellum  MS.  preserved  in  the  same  library,  I have  only  to 
add  here  that  the  Gaedhlic  text  of  that  most  important  volume 
would  make  above  2,000  pages  of  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Mas- 
ters.” 

The  next  great  book  which  merits  our  attention  is  that  which  has 
been  lately  discovered  to  be  in  great  part  the  “ Leabhar  Buidhe 
Lecain  ” (or  the  “ Yellow  Book  of  Lecain  ”),  one  of  the  ponderous 
compilations  of  the  truly  learned  and  industrious  family  of  the  Mac 
Firbises  of  that  ancient  seat  of  learning.  It  is  preserved  in  the 
library  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  it  is  classed  H,  2,  16. 

This  volume,  notwithstanding  many  losses,  consists  of  about  500 
pages  of  large  quarto  vellum,  equal  to  about  2,000  pages  of  Gaedh- 
lic text  printed  like  O’Donovan’ s “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters”; 
and,  with  the  exception  of  a few  small  tracts  in  other  and  some- 
what later  hands,  it  is  all  finely  written  by  Donnoch  and  Gilla  Isa 
Mac  Firbis,  in  the  year  1390. 

The  “ Yellow  Book  of  Lecain,”  in  its  original  form,  would  ap- 
pear to  have  been  a collection  of  ancient  historical  pieces,  civil  and 
ecclesiastical,  in  prose  and  verse.  In  its  present  condition  it  begins 
with  a collection  of  family  and  political  poems,  relating  chiefly  to 
the  families  of  O’Kelly  and  O’Connor  of  Connacht,  and  the  O’Don- 
nells of  Donegall.  This  tract  made  no  part  of  the  original  book. 
These  pieces  are  followed  by  some  monastic  rules  in  verse,  and  some 
poems  on  ancient  Tara,  with  another  fine  copy  of  the  plan  and  ex- 
planation of  its  Teach  Midhchuarta,  or  Banqueting  Hall,  the  same 
which  has  been  published  by  Dr.  Petrie  in  his  “ Essay  on  the  His. 
tory  and  Antiquities  of  Tara.”  After  this  an  account  of  the  crea- 
tion, with  the  formation  and  fall  of  man,  translated  evidently  from 
the  book  of  Genesis.  This  biblical  piece  is  followed  by  the  “Feast  of 
Dun  na  n-Gedh”  and  the  “Battle  of  Magh  Bath”  (two  important 
tracts  published  from  this  copy  by  the  Irish  Archaeological  Society) ; 
then  a most  curious  and  valuable  account,  though  a little  tinged 
with  fable,  of  the  reign  and  death  of  Meuirchertach  Mac  Erca , Mo- 
narch of  Ireland,  at  the  palace  of  Cleitech , on  the  banks  of  the  Eiver 
Boyne,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  527  ; an  imperfect  copy  of  the  “ Tain 
Bo  Chuailgne,”  or  “ Great  Cattle  Spoil  of  Cuailgne,”  in  Louth,  with 
several  of  the  minor  cattle  spoils  that  grew  out  of  it ; after  which 
is  a fine  copy  of  the  Bruighean  Da  Dearga , and  death  of  the 
monarch  Conaire  Mor ; the  tale  of  the  wanderings  of  Meal - 


Eugene  O' Curry. 


641 


duirts  ship  (for  more  than  three  years)  in  the  Atlantic ; some  most 
interesting  tracts  concerning  the  banishment  of  an  ancient  tribe 
from  East  Meath,  and  an  account  of  the  wanderings  of  some  Irish 
ecclesiastics  in  the  Northern  Ocean,  where  they  found  the  exiles ; 
an  abstract  of  the  battle  of  Dunbolg,  in  Wicklow,  where  the  mo- 
narch AecJh  Mac  Ainmire  was  slain,  in  the  year  594 ; the  battle  of 
Magh  Bath  (in  the  present  county  of  Down)  in  which  Congal 
Claen,  prince  of  Ulidia,  was  slain,  in  the  year  634  (published  by 
the  Irish  Archaeological  Society) ; and  the  battle  of  Almhaim  (now 
Allen,  in  the  present  county  of  Kildare),  where  the  monarch  Fer- 
ghal  was  killed,  in  the  year  718.  A variety  of  curious  pieces  follow 
relating  to  Conor  Mac  Nessa ; Curoi  Mac  Daire  (pronounced 
nearly  “Cooree  Mac  Darry  ”) ; Labhraidh  Loingseach  (“  Lovra 
Lingsha”),  King  of  Leinster;  Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  and  his 
poet  Torna,  together  with  many  other  valuable  tracts  and  scraps 
which  I can  do  no  more  than  allude  to  at  present ; and  the  volume 
ends  with  a fine  copy  (imperfect  at  the  beginning)  of  the  law  tract 
I have  already  mentioned  when  speaking  of  the  “ Book  of  Bally- 
mote.”  This  volume  would  make  about  2,000  pages  of  the  “Annals 
of  the  Four  Masters.” 

The  next  of  the  great  books  to  which  I would  desire  your  atten- 
tion is  the  volume  so  well  known  as  the  “ Book  of  Lecain.”  This 
book  was  compiled  in  the  year  1416  by  Gilla  Isa  Mor  Mac  Firbis,  of 
lecain  Mic  Fhirbisigh , in  the  county  of  Sligo,  one  of  the  great 
school  of  teachers  of  that  celebrated  locality,  and  the  direct  ances- 
tor of  the  learned  Bubhaltach  (or  Duald)  Mac  Firbis  already  men- 
tioned. This  book,  which  belongs  to  the  Library  of  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy,  contains  over  600  pages,  equal  to  2,400  pages  of  the 
Gaedhlic  text  of  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.”  It  is  beauti- 
fully and  accurately  written  on  vellum  of  small  folio  size,  chiefly 
in  the  hand  of  Gilla  Isa  Mac  Firbis , though  there  are  some  small 
parts  of  it  written,  respectively,  in  the  hands  of  Adam  O’  Cuirnin 
(the  historian  of  Breifne , or  Briefney)  and  Morogh  Biabhac 
O'  Cuindhs. 

The  first  nine  folios  of  the  “ Book  of  Lecain  ” were  lost  until  dis- 
covered by  me,  a few  years  ago,  bound  up  in  a volume  of  the  Sea- 
bright  Collection,  in  the  library  of  Trinity  College. 

The  “ Book  of  Lecain”  differs  but  little  in  the  arrangements  and 
general  contents  from  the  “ Book  of  Ballymote.”  It  contains  two 
copies  of  the  “ Book  of  Invasions,”  an  imperfect  one  at  the  begin- 


642 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


ning,  but  a perfect  one,  with  the  succession  of  the  kings,  and  the 
tract  on  the  Boromean  Tribute,  at  the  end.  It  contains  fine  copies 
of  the  ancient  historical,  synchronological,  chronological,  and  genea- 
logical poems  already  spoken  of  as  comprised  in  the  “Book  of  Bally- 
mote,”  as  well  as  some  that  are  not  contained  in  that  volume.  These 
are  followed  by  the  family  history  and  genealogies  and  of  the  Mile- 
sians, with  considerable  and  important  additions  to  those  found  in  the 
“ Book  of  Ballymote.”  Among  the  additions  is  a very  valuable  tract, 
in  prose  and  verse,  by  Mac  Firbis  himself,  on  the  families  and  subdi- 
visions of  the  territory  of  Tir  Fiachrcich,  in  the  present  county  of 
Sligo,  a tract  which  has  been  published  by  the  Irish  Archaeologi- 
cal Society  under  the  title  of  “ The  Tribes  and  Customs  of  Hy- 
Fiachrach.” 

The  other  ancient  vellum  books  of  importance  preserved  in  the 
library  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  may  be  described  as  follows : 

A folio  volume  of  ancient  laws,  of  120  pages,  on  vellum,  written 
about  the  year  1400  (classed  E,  3,  5).  This  forms  part  of  the  col- 
lection shortly  to  be  published  by  the  Brehon  Law  Commission,  and 
would  make  about  400  pages  of  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

A small  folio  volume  of  430  pages,  on  vellum  (classed  H,  2,  7),  con- 
sisting chiefly  of  Irish  pedigrees,  together  with  some  historical  poems 
on  the  O’Kellys  and  O’Maddens,  and  some  fragments  of  ancient  his- 
toric tracts  of  great  value,  the  titles  of  which,  however,  are  missing. 
It  contains  also  some  translations  from  ancient  Anglo-Saxon  writers 
of  romance,  and  a fragment  of  an  ancient  translation  of  Giraldus 
Cambrensis’  “History  of  the  Conquest  of  Erinn.”  The  hand- 
writing appears  to  be  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  contents 
of  the  volume  would  make  about  900  pages  of  the  “Annals  of  the 
Four  Masters.” 

A large  folio  volume  of  238  pages  (classed  H,  2,  15),  part  on  vellum 
and  part  on  paper,  consisting  of  a fragment  of  Brehon  Laws  on 
vellum,  transcribed  about  the  year  1300  ; two  copies  of  “ Cormac’s 
Glossary,”  on  paper  (one  of  them  by  Duald  Mac  Firbis) ; another 
ancient  “ Derivative  Glossary  ” in  the  same  hand ; and  some  frag- 
ments of  the  early  history  of  Erinn,  on  vellum.  This  volume  would 
make  about  500  pages  of  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

A large  folio  volume  of  400  pages  (classed  H,  2,  17),  part  on 
paper  and  part  on  vellum,  consisting  chiefly  of  fragments  of  vari- 
ous old  books  or  tracts,  and  among  others  a fragment  of  a curious 
ancient  medical  treatise.  This  volume  likewise  contains  a fragment 


Eii gene  O' Curry. 


643 


of  the  “ Tain  Bo  Chuailgne,”  and  among  merely  literary  tales  it  in- 
cludes that  of  the  “Reign  of  Saturn,”  an  imperfect  Eastern  story, 
as  well  as  an  account  of  the  Argonautic  expedition  (imperfect)  and 
of  the  destruction  of  Troy  (also  imperfect).  With  this  volume  are 
bound  up  nine  leaves  belonging  to  the  “ Book  of  Lecain,”  contain- 
ing amongst  other  things  the  “Dialogue  of  the  Two  Sages,”  the 
“ Royal  Precepts  of  King  Cormac  Mac  Art,”  a fragment  of  the 
“ Danish  Wars,”  short  biographical  sketches  of  some  of  the  Irish 
saints,  and  many  other  interesting  historic  pieces.  The  Gaedhlic 
text  of  this  volume  would  make  altogether  about  1,400  pages  of  the 
“ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

A large  vellum  quarto  (classed  H,  3,  3)  containing  a fine  but  much 
decayed  copy  of  the  “ Dinnseanchus.”  It  would  make  about  100 
pages. 

A small  quarto  volume  of  870  pages,  on  vellum,  written  in  the 
sixteenth  century  (classed  H,  3, 17).  The  contents  up  to  the  617th 
page  consist  of  ancient  laws,  and  from  that  to  the  end  the  contents 
are  of  the  most  miscellaneous  character.  They  consist  chiefly  of 
short  pieces  such  as  “ Brierin’s  Feast,”  an  ancient  tale  of  the  Ulto- 
nians  (imperfect),  an  account  of  the  expulsion  of  the  Deise  (Decies 
or  Deasys)  from  Bregia,  a list  of  the  wonders  of  Erinn,  the  tract  on 
the  ancient  pagan  cemeteries  of  Erinn,  the  account  of  the  division 
of  Erinn  among  the  Aitheach  Tuatha  (called  by  English  writers  the 
Attacots),  the  discovery  of  Cashel  and  story  of  the  two  Druids,  to- 
gether with  the  genealogies  of  the  O’Briens  and  the  succession  of 
the  monarchs  of  Ireland  of  the  line  of  Eber.  In  the  same  volume 
will  be  found,  too,  the  curious  account  of  the  revelation  of  the 
Crucifixion  to  Conor  Mac  Ness,  a King  of  Ulster,  by  his  Druid, 
on  the  day  upon  which  it  occurred,  and  of  the  death  of  Conor  in 
consequence ; the  story  of  the  elopement  of  Ere,  daughter  of  the 
King  of  Albain  (or  Scotland),  with  the  Irish  prince,  Muiredhach, 
grandson  of  Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages ; a tract  on  omens  from 
the  croaking  of  ravens,  etc. ; the  translation  of  the  “History  of  the 
Britons,”  by  Nunnius  ; the  story  of  the  courtship  of  Finn  Mac  Cum- 
haill  (pronounced  “Finn  MacCoole”)  and  Ailehe  (pronounced 
Alveh),  the  daughter  of  King  Cormac  Mac  Art,  together  with  many 
other  short  but  valuable  pieces.  This  volume  would  make  1,700 
pages  of  Gaedhlic  text  like  those  of  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four 
Masters.” 

A small  quarto  volume  of  665  pages  of  vellum  and  194  pages 


644 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


paper,  written  in  the  sixteenth  century  (classed  H,  3,  18).  The 
first  500  pages  contain  various  tracts  and  fragments  of  ancient  laws. 
The  remainder  to  the  end  consists  of  several  independent  glossaries 
and  glosses  of  ancient  poems  and  prose  tracts,  together  with  the 
ancient  historical  tales  of  Bruighean  Da  Chogxdh  (pronounced 
“ Breean  da  Cugga  ”)  ; a story  of  Cathal  Mac  Finghuine,  King  of 
Munster  in  the  middle  of  the  eighth  century;  stories  of  Ronan  Mac 
Aedha  (pronounced  “ MacEa  or  MacHugh  ”),  King  of  Leinster,  and 
the  story  of  the  poetess  Liadian  of  Kerry.  This  volume  contains 
also  the  account  of  the  revolution  of  the  Aitheach  Tuatha  (or  Atta- 
cots),  and  the  murder  by  them  of  the  kings  and  nobles  of  Erinn, 
Tundal’s  vision,  poems  on  the  O’Neills  and  on  the  MacDonnells  of 
Antrim,  John  O’Mulchouroy’s  celebrated  poem  on  Brian-na  Mur- 
tha  O’Rourke,  together  with  a great  number  of  short  articles  on  a 
variety  of  historic  subjects  bearing  on  all  parts  of  Erinn,  and  some 
pedigrees  of  the  chief  families  of  Ulster,  Connacht,  and  Leinster. 
This  volume  would  make  about  1,800  pages  of  the  “ Annals  of  the 
Four  Masters.” 

A small  quarto  volume  of  230  pages  (classed  H,  4,  22),  seventy  of 
which  contain  fragments  of  ancient  laws.  The  remainder  of  the 
book  contains  a great  variety  of  tracts  and  poems,  and  among  others 
a large  and  important  tract  on  the  first  settlement  of  the  Milesians 
in  Erinn,  a fragment  of  the  tale  called  “ Brierinn’s  Feast,”  several 
ancient  poems  on  the  families  of  the  O’Neills,  the  O’Donnells,  the 
Mac  Revalds,  etc.,  together  with  various  small  poems  and  prose  of 
some  value.  This  volume  appears  to  be  made  up  of  fragments  of 
two  books.  The  writing  of  the  first  seventy  pages  seems  to  be  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  but  the  remaining  part  appears  to  be  at  least 
a century  older.  The  entire  volume  has  suffered  much  from  neglect 
and  from  exposure  to  smoke  and  damp.  The  Gaedhlic  text  of  it 
would  make  about  500  pages  of  the  “ Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

To  these  books  I may  add  (as  being  preserved  in  the  same  library) 
the  “Annals  of  Ulster”  and  those  of  Loch  Ge,  already  spoken  of 
both,  by  vellum,  and  the  text  of  which  Tvould  make  about  900  pages 
of  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.” 

Besides  the  vellum  MSS.  of  law  and  history,  the  Trinity  College 
library  contains  a large  collection  of  paper  MSS.  of  great  value, 
being  transcripts  of  ancient  vellum  books  made  chiefly  in  the  first 
half  of  the  last  century.  To  enumerate,  and  even  partially  to  analyze, 
these  paper  MSS.  would  carry  me  far  beyond  the  limits  to  which 


Eugene  O'  Curry. 


645 


the  present  lecture  must  necessarily  be  confined,  but  among  the 
most  important  of  them  I may  mention  a volume  written  about  the 
year  1690  by  Owen  O’Donnelly  (an  excellent  Gaedhlic  scholar), 
some  large  volumes  by  the  O’Neachtans  (John  and  Tadhg  or  Tiege) 
between  the  years  1716  and  1740,  a copy  of  the  “ Wars  of  Tho- 
mond  ” made  by  Andrew  MacCurtin  in  1716,  and  several  large 
volumes  transcribed  by  Hugh  O’Daly,  for  Doctor  Francis  O’Sulli- 
van of  Trinity  College,  in  and  about  the  year  1750,  the  originals  of 
which  are  not  now  known. 

In  this  catalogue  of  books  I have  not  particularized,  nor  in  some 
instances  at  all  included,  the  large  body  of  ecclesiastical  writings 
preserved  in  the  Trinity  College  library,  consisting  of  ancient  lives 
of  Irish  saints,  and  other  religious  pieces  in  prose  and  verse.  Neither 
have  I included  in  my  analysis  of  the  collection  the  fac-simile  copies 
made  by  myself  for  the  library  of  the  “ Book  of  Lecain  ” (on  vel- 
lum), of  the  so-called  “Leabhar  Breac  ” (on  paper),  of  the  “Danish 
Wars,”  oc  Mac  Firbis’s  Glossaries,  and  of  a volume  of  ancient  Irish 
deeds  (on  paper). 

The  library  of  the  ftoyal  Irish  Academy,  besides  its  fine  treas- 
ures of  ancient  vellum  MSS.,  contains  also  a very  large  number  of 
important  paper  MSS.  ; but  as  they  amount  to  some  hundreds,  it 
would  be  totally  out  of  my  power  and  beyond  the  scope  of  this  lec- 
ture to  enumerate  them,  or  to  give  the  most  meagre  analysis  of  their 
varied  contents. 

There  are,  however,  a few  among  them  to  which  I feel  called  upon 
particularly  to  allude,  although  in  terms  more  brief  than  with  more 
time  and  space  I should  have  been  disposed  to  devote  to  them. 

The  first  of  these  volumes  that  I wish  to  bring  under  your  notice  is 
a fragment  of  the  book  well  known  as  the  “ Book  of  Lismore.”  This 
is  a MS.  on  paper  of  the  largest  folio  size  and  best  quality.  It  is 
a fac-simile  copy  made  by  me  from  the  original  in  the  year  1839  for 
the  Koyal  Irish  Academy.  This  transcript  is  an  exact  copy,  page 
for  page,  line  for  line,  word  for  word,  and  contraction  for  contrac- 
tion, and  was  carefully  and  attentively  read  over  and  collated  with 
the  original  by  Dr.  John  O’Donovan  and  myself.  And,  indeed,  I 
think  I may  safely  say  that  I have  recovered  as  much  of  the  text  of 
the  original  as  it  was  possible  to  bring  out  without  the  application 
of  acids  or  other  chemical  preparations,  which  I was  not  at  liberty  to 
use. 

Of  the  history  of  the  original  MS.,  which  is  finely  written  on 


646 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


vellum  of  the  largest  size,  we  know  nothing  previous  to  the  year 
1814.  In  that  year  the  late  Duke  of  Devonshire  commenced  the 
work  of  repairing  the  ancient  castle  of  Lismore,  in  the  county  of 
Waterford,  his  property,  and  in  the  progress  of  the  work,  the  work- 
men having  occasion  to  reopen  a doorway  that  had  been  closed  up 
with  masonry,  in  the  interior  of  the  castle,  they  found  a wooden  box 
enclosed  in  the  centre  of  it,  which,  on  being  taken  out,  was  found  to 
contain  this  MS.,  as  well  as  a superb  old  crosier.  The  MS.  had 
suffered  much  from  damp,  and  the  back,  front,  and  top  margin 
had  been  gnawed  in  several  places  by  rats  or  mice  ; but  worse  than 
that,  it  was  said  that  the  workmen  by  whom  the  precious  box  was 
found  carried  off  several  loose  leaves,  and  even  whole  staves,  of  the 
book.  Whether  this  be  the  case  or  not,  it  is,  I regret  to  say,  true 
that  the  greater  number  of  the  tracts  contained  in  it  are  defective, 
and,  as  I believe,  that  whole  tracts  have  disappeared  from  it  altogether 
since  the  time  of  its  discovery.  The  book  was  preserved  for  some 
time  with  great  care  by  the  late  Colonel  Curry,  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire’s agent,  who,  however,  in  1815  lent  it  to  Denis  O’Flinn,  a pro- 
fessed but  a very  indifferent  Irish  scholar,  living  then  in  Mallow  Lane 
in  the  city  of  Cork. 

O’Flinn  bound  it  in  wooden  boards,  and  disfigured  several  parts  of 
it  by  writing  on  the  MS.  While  in  O’Flinn’s  hands  it  was  copied 
in  whole  or  in  part  by  Michael  O’Longan,  of  Carrignavar,  near  Cork. 
It  was  O’Flinn  who  gave  it  the  name  of  the  “Book  of  Lismore,” 
merely  because  it  was  found  at  that  place.  After  having  made  such 
use  of  the  book  as  he  thought  proper,  O’Flinn  returned  it,  bound  as 
I have  already  stated,  to  Colonel  Curry  some  time  between  the  years 
1816  and  1820,  and  so  the  venerable  old  relic  remained  unquestioned, 
and  I believe  unopened,  until  it  was  borrowed  by  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy,  to  be  copied  for  them  by  me,  in  the  year  1839. 

The  facilities  for  close  examination  which  the  slow  progress  of  a 
fac-simile  transcript  afforded  me  enabled  me  to  clearly  discover  this 
at  least : that  not  only  was  the  abstraction  of  portions  of  the  old 
book  of  recent  date,  but  that  the  dishonest  act  had  been  deliberately 
perpetrated  by  a skilful  hand  and  for  a double  purpose.  For  it  was 
not  only  that  whole  staves  had  been  pilfered,  but  particular  subjects 
were  mutilated,  so  as  to  leave  the  part  that  was  returned  to  Lismore 
almost  valueless  without  the  abstracted  parts,  the  offending  parties 
having  first,  of  course,  copied  all  or  the  most  part  of  the  mutilated 
pieces. 


Eugene  O'Curry. 


647 


After  my  transcript  had  been  finished  and  the  old  fragments  of 
the  original  returned  to  Lismore  by  the  Academy,  I instituted  on 
my  own  account  a close  enquiry  in  Cork,  with  the  view  of  discover- 
ing, if  possible,  whether  any  part  of  the  “ Book  of  Lismore  ” still 
remained  there.  Some  seven  or  eight  years  passed  over,  however, 
without  my  gaining  any  information  on  the  subject,  when  I hap- 
pened to  meet  by  accident  in  Dublin  a literary  gentleman  from  the 
town  of  Middleton,  ten  miles  from  the  city  of  Cork  ; and  as  I never 
missed  an  opportunity  of  prosecuting  my  enquiries,  I lost  no  time 
in  communicating  to  him  my  suspicions,  and  the  circumstances  on 
which  they  were  grounded,  that  part  of  the  “ Book  of  Lismore  ” 
must  be  still  remaining  in  Cork.  To  my  joy  and  surprise,  the  gen- 
tleman told  me  that  he  had  certain  knowledge  of  the  fact  of  a large 
portion  of  the  original  MS.  being  in  the  hands  of  another  party,  but 
that  he  did  not  knew  the  owner,  nor  how  or  when  he  became  pos- 
sessed of  it.  In  a short  time  after  this  the  late  Sir  William  Betham’s 
collection  of  MSS.  passed  by  purchase  into  the  library  of  the  Loyal 
Irish  Academy  ; and  as  I knew  that  the  greater  part  of  this  collec- 
tion had  been  obtained  from  Cork,  I lost  no  time  in  examining 
them  closely  for  any  copies  of  pieces  from  the  “ Book  of  Lismore.” 
Nor  was  I disappointed,  for  I found  among  the  books  copies  of  the 
lives  of  St.  Brendan,  St.  Ciaran  of  Clonmacnois,  St.  Mochna 
of  Balia,  in  Mayo,  and  St.  Finnchn  of  Brigobhann,  in  the  county 
of  Cork,  besides  several  legends  and  minor  pieces,  all  copied  by 
Michael  O’Longan  from  the  “ Book  of  Lismore  ” in  the  house  of 
Denis  Ban  O’Flinn,  in  Cork,  in  the  year  1816.  And  not  only  does 
O’Longan  state  at  the  end  of  one  of  these  lives  that  he  copied  these 
from  the  book  which  Denis  O’Flinn  had  borrowed  from  Lismore, 
but  he  gives  the  weight  of  it  and  the  number  of  leaves  or  folios 
which  the  book  in  its  integrity  contained.  As  a further  piece  of 
presumptive  evidence  of  the  “ Book  of  Lismore”  having  been  mu- 
tilated in  Cork  about  this  time,  allow  me  to  read  for  you  the  follow- 
ing memorandum  in  pencil  in  an  unknown  hand  which  has  come 
into  my  possession : 

“ Mr.  Denis  O’Flyn,  of  Mallow  Lane,  Cork,  has  brought  a book 
from  Lismore  lately,  written  on  vellum  about  900  years  ago  by 
Miles  O’Kelly  for  Florence  McCarthy.  It  contains  the  lives  of  some 
principal  Irish  saints,  with  other  historical  facts,  such  as  the  wars  of 
the  Danes.  31st  October,  1815.” 

To  this  I may  add  here  the  following  extract  of  a letter  written 


648  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

by  Mr.  Joseph  Long,  of  Cork,  to  the  late  William  Ellicott  Hudson, 
of  Dublin, Esq.,  dated  February  the  10th,  1848: 

“ Honored  Sir  : I have  taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  this  MS. 
to  your  honor.  It  contains  various  pieces  copied  from  the  4 Book 
of  Lismore 5 and  other  old  Irish  MSS.  They  are  pieces  whose  con- 
tents are  4 Forbuis  Droma  Damhghoire,’  a historic  legend  describ- 
ing the  invasion  of  Munster  by  Cormac  Mac  Art,  the  wonderful 
actions  of  the  Druids,  Druidish  incantations,  and  so  forth ; 4 Air 
an  da  Fearmaighe,’  a topography  of  the  two  Fermoys,  together  with 
an  account  of  its  chieftains,  tribes,  or  families,  and  so  forth  ; 4 Sael 
Fiachna  mic  Reataich,’  a legend  of  Loch  En  in  Connaught ; 4Riag- 
hail  do  Righthibh,’  a rule  for  kings  composed  by  Dubh  Mac  Turth; 
4 Seel  air  Chairbre  Cinn  cait,’  the  murder  of  the  royal  chieftains  of 
Erinn  by  their  slaves,  the  descendants  of  the  Firbolgs,  and  so 
forth — 4 Book  of  Lismore.’” 

With  all  these  evidences  before  me  of  a part  of  the  44  Book  of 
Lismore”  having  been  detained  in  Cork,  in  the  year  1853  I pre- 
vailed on  a friend  of  mine  in  that  city  to  endeavor  to  ascertain  in 
whose  hands  it  was,  what  might  be  the  nature  of  its  contents, 
whether  it  would  be  sold,  and  at  what  price.  All  this  my  friend 
kindly  performed.  He  procured  me  what  purported  to  be  a cata- 
logue of  the  contents  of  the  Cork  part  of  the  44  Book  of  Lismore,” 
and  he  ascertained  that  the  fragment  consisted  of  66  folios,  or  132 
pages,  and  that  it  would  be  sold  for  fifty  pounds. 

I immediately  offered,  on  the  part  of  the  Rev.  Drs.  Todd  and 
Graves,  then  the  secretaries  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  the  sum 
named  for  the  book,  but  some  new  conditions  with  which  I had  no 
power  to  comply  were  afterwards  added,  and  the  negotiation  broke 
off  at  this  point.  The  book  shortly  after  passed  by  purchase  into 
the  possession  of  Thomas  Hewitt,  Esq.,  of  Summerhill  House,  near 
Cork,  and  in  January,  1855,  a memoir  of  it  was  read  before  the 
Cuverian  Society  of  Cork  by  John  Windele,  Esq.,  of  Blair’s  Castle, 
in  which  he  makes  the  following  statement : 

44  The  work,  it  was  supposed,  may  have  been  a portion  of  the 
4 Book  of  Lismore,’  so  well  known  to  our  literary  antiquarians,  but 
it  is  now  satisfactorily  ascertained  to  have  been  transcribed  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century  for  Fineen  McCarthy  Reagh, 
Lord  of  Carbery,  and  his  wife  Catherine,  the  daughter  of  Thomas, 
eighth  Earl  of  Desmond.  Unfortunately,”  he  adds,  44  the  volume 
has  suffered  some  mutilation  by  the  loss  of  several  folios.  The  4 Life 


Eugene  O' Curry. 


649 


of  Finnehen  ’ and  the  ‘Forbids’  are  partly  defective  in  consequence, 
but  we  possess  among  our  local  MS.  collections  entire  copies  of 
these  pieces.” 

To  be  sure,  they  have  in  Cork  entire  copies  of  these  pieces,  but 
they  are  copies  by  Michael  O’Longan  from  the  “Book  of  Lismore” 
before  its  mutilation  among  them,  or  else  copies  made  from  his 
copies  by  his  sons. 

That  Mr.  Windele  believed  what  he  wrote  about  the  Cork  frag- 
ment there  can,  of  course,  be  no  doubt ; still,  it  is  equally  indubit- 
able that  this  same  fragment  is  part  and  parcel  of  the  “ Book  of 
Lismore,”  and  that  it  became  detached  from  it  while  in  the  hands 
of  Denis  O’Flinn,  of  Cork,  some  time  in  the  year  1816.  And  it  is, 
therefore,  equally  certain  that  the  book  which  Mr.  Hewitt  pur- 
chased, perhaps  as  an  original  bona-fide  volume,  with  some  slight 
losses,  is  nothing  more  than  a fragment  consisting  of  about  one- 
third  part  of  the  “ Book  of  Lismore,”  and  that  this  part  was 
fraudulently  abstracted  in  Cork  at  the  time  above  indicated.  The 
two  pieces  which  Mr.  Windele  particularizes  as  being  defective  in 
the  Cork  part  are  also  defective  in  the  Lismore  part.  The  “ Life  of 
Saint  Finnchn  ” wants  but  about  one  page  in  the  latter,  while  in 
Cork  they  cannot  have  more  of  it  than  one  page  or  folio ; and  of  the 
“ Forbuis,”  something  about  the  first  half  is  at  Lismore,  while  no 
more  than  the  second  half  can  be  in  Cork.  And  although  I have 
never  seen  any  part  of  the  Cork  fragment,  I feel  bold  enough  to 
say  that  should  both  parts  be  brought  together  in  presence  of  com- 
petent judges,  they  will  be  pronounced  to  be  parts  of  the  same  ori- 
ginal volume,  and  that  several  of  the  defects  in  either  will  be 
exactly  supplied  by  the  other. 

My  transcript  of  the  Lismore  fragment  of  this  valuable  book 
consists  of  131  folios,  or  262  pages.  The  chief  items  of  the  con- 
tents are  ancient  lives  of  St.  Patrick,  St.  Colum  Cille,  St.  Brigid 
of  Kildare,  St.  Lenan  (of  Scattery  Island  in  the  Lower  Shannon), 
St.  Fmnen  of  Clonard,  and  St.  Finnchn  of  Brigoblan , in  the  county 
of  Cork,  all  written  in  Gaedhlic  of  great  purity  and  antiquity ; the 
conquests  of  Charlemagne,  translated  from  the  celebrated  romance 
of  the  middle  ages  ascribed  to  Turpin,  Archbishop  of  Rheims  ; the 
conversion  of  the  Pantheon  at  Rome  into  a Christian  church  ; 
the  story  of  Petronilla,  the  daughter  of  St.  Peter ; the  discovery  of 
the  Sibylline  oracle  in  a stone  coffin  at  Rome ; the  history  of  the 
Lombards  (imperfect) ; an  account  of  St.  Gregory  the  Great ; the 


650 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


heresy  of  the  Empress  Justiua  ; of  some  modification  of  certain  minor 
ceremonies  of  the  Mass  on  account  of  the  successors  of  Charlemagne  ; 
of  the  correspondence  between  Archbishop  Lanfranc  and  the  clergy  at 
Rome  ; extracts  from  the  travels  of  Marco  Polo  ; an  account  of  the 
battles  of  the  celebrated  Caellachan,  King  of  Cashel,  with  the 
Danes  of  Erinn  in  the  tenth  century  ; of  the  battle  of  Crinna 
between  Cormac  Mac  Art,  King  of  Ireland,  and  the  Ulstermen  ; and 
of  the  siege  of  Drom  Damhgliaire  (now  called  Knocklong,  in  the 
county  of  Limerick)  by  King  Cormac  Mac  Art  against  the  men  of 
Munster.  This  last,  though  a strictly  historic  tale  in  its  leading 
facts,  is  full  of  wild  incident,  in  which  Mogh  Ruith , the  great  Mun- 
ster Druid,  and  Cithruadli  and  Colpatha , the  Druids  of  the  monarch 
Cormac,  bear  a most  conspicuous  and  curious  part. 

The  last  piece  in  the  book  is  one  of  very  great  interest.  It  is 
in  the  form  of  a dialogue  between  St.  Patrick  and  the  two  surviving 
warriors  of  the  band  of  heroes  led  by  the  celebrated  Finn  Mac  Cum- 
haill  Caoilte,  the  son  of  Ronan,  and  Oisin , the  warrior  poet,  son  of 
Finn  himself.  It  describes  the  situation  of  several  of  the  hills,  moun- 
tains, rivers,  caverns,  rills,  etc.,  in  Ireland,  with  the  derivation  of  their 
names.  It  is  as  much  to  be  regretted  that  this  very  curious  tract  is 
imperfect.  But  for  these  defects  we  should  probably  have  found  in 
it  notices  of  almost  every  monument  of  note  in  ancient  Ireland,  and 
even  in  its  mutilated  state  it  cannot  but  be  regarded  as  preserving 
many  of  the  most  ancient  traditions  to  which  we  can  now  have 
access — traditions  which  were  committed  to  writing  at  a period 
when  the  ancient  customs  of  the  people  were  unbroken  and  undis- 
turbed. 

I regret  that  space  does  not  allow  me  to  analyze  a few  more  of 
the  important  paper  books  in  the  Academy’s  library,  but  I think  I 
have  already  done  enough  to  enable  you  to  form  some  intelligible 
general  estimate  of  the  value  and  extent  of  the  old  GaedJilic  books 
in  Dublin,  and  I shall  only  add  that  the  paper  books  in  Trinity 
College  and  the  Academy  are  above  600  in  number,  and  may  be  es- 
timated to  contain  about  30,000  pages  of  GaedJilic  text  if  printed 
at  length  in  the  form  to  which  I have  so  often  referred  as  a speci- 
men— that  of  O’Donovan’s  “ Annals.”  There  is,  however,  one  col- 
lection—rather,  I may  say,  one  class  of  MSS.  monuments  of  Irish 
history — which  I cannot  pass  by  without  at  least  alluding  to  it, 
though  it  would  be  perhaps  improper  for  me  at  the  present  moment 
to  enter  upon  any  detailed  account  of  it,  I mean  the  great  body  of 


Eiigenc  O'Curry. 


651 

the  laws  of  ancient  Erinn,  commonly  called  by  the  English  the 
Brehon  Laws.  This  collection  is  so  immense  in  extent,  and  the 
subjects  dealt  with  throughout  the  whole  of  it  in  the  utmost  detail 
are  so  numerous  and  so  fully  illustrated  by  exact  definitions  and 
minute  descriptions,  that  to  enable  us  to  fill  up  the  outline  supplied 
by  the  annals  and  genealogies  these  books  of  laws  alone  would 
almost  be  found  sufficient  in  competent  hands.  Indeed,  if  it  were 
permitted  me  to  enlarge  upon  their  contents,  even  to  the  extent  to 
which  I have  spoken  upon  the  subject  of  the  various  annals  I have 
described  to  you,  I should  be  forced  to  devote  many  lectures  to  this 
subject  alone.  But  these  ancient  laws,  as  you  are  all  aware,  are 
now,  and  have  been  for  the  last  three  years,  in  progress  of  tran- 
scription and  preparation  for  publication  under  the  direction  of  a 
commission  of  Irish  noblemen  and  gentlemen  appointed  by  royal 
warrant,  and  it  would  not  be  for  me  to  anticipate  their  regular 
publication. 

The  quantity  of  transcript  already  made  (and  there  is  still  a part 
to  be  made)  amounts  to  over  5,000  close  quarto  pages,  which  on 
average  would  be  equal  to  near  8,000  pages  of  the  text  of  O’Dono- 
van’s  “Annals.”  This  quantity,  of  course,  contains  many  duplicate 
pieces,  and  it  will  rest  with  the  commissioners  whether  to  publish 
the  whole  mass  or  only  a fair  and  full  text  compiled  from  a colla- 
tion of  all  the  duplicate  copies.  Any  one  who  has  examined  the 
body  of  Welsh  Laws,  now  some  years  before  the  world,  will  at  once 
be  able  to  form  a fair  opinion  of  the  interest  and  value  in  a histori- 
cal and  social  point  of  view  of  this  far  larger,  this  immense  and 
hitherto  unexplored,  mass  of  legal  institutes.  And  these  were  the 
laws  and  institutes  which  regulated  the  political  and  social  system 
of  a people  the  most  remarkable  in  Europe  from  a period  almost 
lost  in  the  dark  mazes  of  antiquity  down  to  within  about  two  hundred 
years,  or  seven  generations,  of  our  own  time,  and  whose  spirit  and 
traditions,  I may  add,  influence  the  feelings  and  actions  of  the  na- 
tive Irish  even  to  this  day.  To  these  laws  may  we,  indeed,  justly 
apply  the  expressive  remark  of  the  poet  Moore  on  the  old  MSS.  in 
the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  that  they  “ were  not  written  by  a foolish 
people,  nor  for  any  foolish  purpose.”  Into  the  particulars  and  ar- 
rangements of  this  mass  of  laws  I shall  not  enter  here,  since  they 
are,  as  I have  already  stated,  in  the  hands  of  a commission  on 
whose  prerogatives  I have  no  disposition  to  trench.  I may,  how- 
ever, be  permitted  to  observe  that,  copious  though  the  records  in 


652 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


which  the  actions  and  everyday  life  of  our  rem  ote  ancestors  hav 
come  down  to  us  through  the  various  documents  of  which  I have  been 
speaking,  still  without  these  laws  our  history  would  be  necessarily 
barren,  deficient,  and  uncertain  in  one  of  its  most  interesting  and 
important  essentials.  For  what  can  be  more  essential  for  the  histo- 
rian’s purpose  than  to  have  the  means  of  seeing  clearly  what  the  laws 
and  customs  were  precisel}7,  which  governed  and  regulated  the  general 
and  relative  action  of  the  monarch  and  the  provincial  kings,  of  the 
provincial  kings  and  the  hereditary  princes  and  chiefs  of  these  in 
turn,  and  of  what  may  be  called  the  hereditary  proprietors,  the 
Flciiths  (pronounced  “Flahs”)  or  landlords,  and  below  these  again 
of  their  farmers  and  tenants  of  all  grades  and  conditions,  native 
and  stranger ; and  what  is  even  more  interesting,  if  possible,  the 
conditions  on  which  these  various  parties  held  their  lands,  and  the 
local  customs  which  regulated  their  agrarian  and  social  policy,  as 
wTell  as  in  general  the  sumptuary  and  economical  laws  and  the 
several  customs  which  distinguished  all  these  classes  one  from 
another,  compliance  with  which  was  absolutely  necessary  to  main- 
tain them  in  their  proper  ranks  and  respective  privileges  ? There 
are  thousands  of  allusions  to  the  men  and  women  of  those  days,  as 
well  as  to  various  circumstances,  manners,  customs,  and  habits  to 
be  met  with  in  our  historic  writings,  otherwise  inexplicable,  which 
find  a clear  and  natural  solution  in  these  venerable  institutes.  And 
there  are  besides,  too,  a vast  number  of  facts,  personal  and  histori- 
cal, recorded  in  the  course  of  the  laws  (often  stated  by  the  com- 
mentator or  scribe  as  examples  or  precedents  of  the  application  of 
the  particular  law  under  discussion)  which  must  be  carefully 
gleaned  from  before  that  history  which  is  yet  to  be  framed  out 
of  the  materials  I have  described  to  you  can  ever  be  satisfactorily 
completed. 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE. 


“ One  of  the  most  gifted  men  of  this  age.” — “ Popular  History  of  the  Ca- 
tholic Church  in  the  United  States.” 

“ No  one,  not  even  Davis,  seems  to  have  infused  the  spirit  of  Irish  history  so 
thoroughly  into  his  mind  and  heart  as  McGee.” — The  Dublin  “ Nation.” 

“ It  has  been  said,  and  I think  with  truth,  that  McGee  was,  even  more  than 
Moore,  entitled  to  be  called  the  Bard  of  Erin , for  that  his  genius  was  more  dis- 
tinctively Irish,  and  his  inspiration  more  directly  and  more  exclusively  from  Ire- 
land and  her  ancient  race.” — Mrs.  J.  Sadlier. 

THOMAS  D’ARCY  McGEE  was  born  in  the  little  town  of  Car- 
lingford,  county  of  Louth,  Ireland,  on  the  13th  of  April, 
1825.  On  both  his  father’s  and  mother’s  side  he  belonged  to 
Catholic  and  patriotic  Irish  families.  His  mother  was  the  highly- 
educated  daughter  of  a Dublin  bookseller,  a woman  of  extraordinary 
elevation  of  mind,  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  her  country,  its  music, 
its  legends,  and  its  wealth  of  ancient  lore. 1 Is  it  necessary  to  de- 
scribe the  influence  of  such  a mother  on  the  tender  mind  of  her 
gifted  son  ? Mothers  are  soul-moulders. 

“ Born  and  nurtured,”  writes  his  friend,  Mrs.  J.  Sadlier,  “amid 
the  grand  and  lovely  scenery  of  the  Rosstrevor  coast,  his  early 
childhood  fleeted  by  in  a region  of  wild,  romantic  beauty,  which  im- 
pressed itself  for  evermore  on  his  heart  and  mind,  and  tended  not  a 
little,  as  we  may  well  suppose,  to  foster,  if  not  create,  that  poetic 
fancy  which  made  the  charm  of  his  life,  and  infused  itself  into  all 
he  wrote  and  all  he  said.”  2 

Thomas  was  eight  years  old  when  the  family  removed  to  the 
town  of  Wexford.  Here,  year  after  year,  his  wonderful  genius  de- 
veloped, without  other  aids  than  the  advantage  of  a day-school. 
He  studied  hard,  and  was  a great  reader  of  history  and  poetry. 
But,  after  his  seventeenth  year,  McGee  was  his  own  professor,  the 
world  was  his  university,  and  experience  his  diploma. 

Coming  to  the  United  States  in  1842,  he  soon  distinguished  him- 

1 Mrs.  J.  Sadlier,  “Biographical  Sketch  of  McGee.” 

653 


2 Ibid. 


654 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


self,  and  when  only  nineteen  years  of  age  lie  filled — and  ably  filled 
— the  editorial  chair  of  the  Boston  Pilot.  The  Native-American 
excitement  was  then  at  its  height,  and  Philadelphia  and  other  cities 
were  disgraced  by  riots,  burnings,  and  mob-rule.3  On  all  -sides 
the  Irish  Catholics  were  attacked  and  vilified.  “ Few  were  then 
their  defenders  in  the  press  of  America,  but  of  those  few  stood 
foremost  in  the  van  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,  a host  in  himself. 
With  all  the  might  of  his  precocious  genius,  and  all  the  fire  of  his 
fervid  eloquence,  he  advocated  the  cause  of  his  countrymen  and  co- 
religionists, and  so  scathing  were  his  fiery  denunciations  of  the 
Native  Americans,  as  the  hostile  party  were  styled,  that  all  New 
England  rang  with  their  unwelcome  echo.”  4 

The  gifted  young  Irishman’s  fame  crossed  the  Atlantic,  and  he 
was  invited  by  the  proprietor  of  the  leading  daily  journal  in  Dublin 
to  become  its  editor.  But  he  soon  joined  the  Dublin  Nation,  the 
organ  of  the  “Young  Ireland  Party.”  Davis,  Duffy,  Mitchel, 
McGee,  and  other  bright  young  minds  of  Ireland  made  it,  for  a 
time,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  journals  in  Europe.  This  is  not 
the  place  to  describe  McGee’s  bold  and  stirring  career  as  one  of  the 
Irish  leaders  m ’48.  Through  the  efforts  of  the  patriotic  Bishop 
Maginn  he  succeeded,  disguised  as  a priest,  in  escaping  to  America, 
and  landed  at  Philadelphia  in  October,  1848. 

He  began  the  New  York  Nation  the  same  month ; and,  some 
time  later,  his  devoted  young  wife  from  Ireland  joined  him.  In 
1850  McGee  removed  to  Boston  and  commenced  the  publication  of 
the  American  Celt.  His  subsequent  career  as  a leading  journalist, 
patriot,  statesman,  poet,  orator,  and  historian  is  not  unknown  to 
the  reading  public.  Ireland  and  the  Catholic  Church  were  his 
watchwords. 

In  1857  his  countrymen  of  Montreal  invited  him  to  come 
amongst  them,  an  invitation  which  he  accepted,  as  he  removed  to 
Canada  the  same  year.  His  career  in  Canada  was  distinguished. 
He  soon  entered  the  legislative  halls  north  of  the  St.  Lawrence, 
and  all  were  obliged  to  recognize  him  as  a man  of  marked  ability. 
He  was  for  years  the  chosen  leader  and  eloquent  spokesman  of  the 
Irish  in  Canada. 

It  is  now  about  twelve  or  thirteen  years  since  the  present  writer, 


3 See  the  “ Popular  History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  United  States,”  book  ii., 
chap.  v. 

4 Mrs.  J.  Sadlier,  “ Biographical  Sketch  of  McGee.” 


Thomas  D Arcy  McGee. 


655 


then  a mere  lad,  whose  highest  ambition  was  to  be  able  to  read 
fluently,  parse  a difficult  sentence,  and  write  a fair  composition  on 
a broomstick,  or  some  other  equally  profound  subject,  was  intro- 
duced to  Mr.  McGee.  He  was  then  in  the  height  of  his  fame. 
The  introduction  was  purely  accidental.  Some  expressions,  few 
but  very  kind,  came  from  the  lips  of  the  eminent  orator,  author, 
and  legislator.  It  was  the  first  and  the  last  time  we  ever  saw  him  ; 
and  little  did  the  Hon.  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,  or  any  one  else, 
imagine  that  the  timid,  bashful  boy  to  whom  he  then  spoke  so 
affectionately,  would  one  day  carefully  collect  together  some  of 
his  choice  pieces  in  verse  and  prose,  and  endeavor  to  perpetuate 
his  bright  and  worthy  name  in  the  pages  of  history  and  litera- 
ture. 

McGee  fell  by  the  hand  of  a vile  assassin  in  the  capital  of  Canada. 
Nor  was  he  the  first  great  and  good  man  who  met  such  a melan- 
choly death.  On  the  morning  of  April  7,  1867,  passed  from  earth, 
in  his  forty-second  year,  the  most  gifted  Irishman  in  America,  and 
one  of  the  richest  and  most  splendid  intellects  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

McGee  contributed  to  nearly  every  department  of  literature,  and 
it  can  be  as  truly  said  of  him  as  of  Goldsmith  that  “ he  touched 
no  subject  which  he  did  not  adorn.”  He  was  the  first  to  work  up 
the  crude  materials  of  our  Church  history  in  his  “Catholic  History 
of  North  America ” ; and  in  his  “Irish  Settlers  in  America  ” he 
was  the  first  to  point  out  what  this  Republic  owes  to  old  Ireland. 
“O’Connell  and  his  Friends,”  “The  Irish  Writers  of  the  Seven- 
teenth Century,”  the  “Life  of  Bishop  Maginn,”  “Attempts  to 
Establish  the  Protestant  Reformation  in  Ireland,”  “ A Popular 
History  of  Ireland,”  and  “ Poems,”  edited  by  his  friend,  Mrs.  J. 
Sadlier,  complete,  we  believe,  the  list  of  his  works,  and  show  the 
wide  field  in  which  his  solid  and  brilliant  Catholic  mind  exerted 
itself.  Among  the  foregoing,  the  “ History  of  Ireland”  holds  the 
first  place.  It  is,  we  think,  the  best  brief  work  on  that  subject  in 
the  English  language  ; and  if  accuracy,  sound  judgment,  philoso- 
phic grasp  of  thought,  and  a style  pure,  clear,  and  terse  be  merits 
in  a writer  of  history,  then  McGee  must  ever  hold  a high  rank  as 
an  historian.  As  a poet,  he  ranks  with  the  first ; as  an  orator, 
journalist,  and  statesman,  he  has  had,  in  our  day  and  country,  few 
equals  and  no  superiors. 

Mr.  McGee  never  sings  so  sweetly,  nor  do  his  pages  ever  glow  so 


656  The  Prose  ana  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

warmly,  as  when  he  treats  of  his  native  isle,  and  of  the  glory  and 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  Catholic  Church.6 


THE  DYING  CELT  TO  HIS  AMERICAN  SON. 

My  son,  a darkness  falleth, 

Not  of  night,  upon  my  eyes  ; 

And  in  my  ears  there  calleth 
A voice  as  from  the  skies ; 

I feel  that  I am  dying, 

I feel  my  day  is  done  ; 

Bid  the  women  hush  their  crying 
And  hear  to  me,  my  son  ! 

When  Time  my  garland  gathers, 

0 my  son  ! I charge  you  hold 

By  the  standard  of  your  fathers 
In  the  battle-fields  of  old  ! 

In  blood  they  wrote  their  story 
Across  its  field,  my  boy  ; 

On  earth  it  was  their  glory, 

In  Heaven  it  is  their  joy. 

By  St.  Patrick’s  hand  ’twas  planted 
On  Erin’s  sea-beat  shore, 

And  it  spread  its  folds,  undaunted, 
Through  the  drift  and  the  uproar. 

Of  all  its  vain  assaulters. 

Who  could  ever  say  he  saw 

The  last  of  Ireland’s  altars, 

Or  the  last  of  Patrick’s  law  ? 

Through  the  Western  ocean  driven, 

By  the  tyrant’s  scorpion  whips. 

Behold  ! the  hand  of  Heaven 
Bore  our  standard  o’er  the  ships 


6 John  O’Kane  Murray,  “ Popular  History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  United  States.” 
For  a very  excellent  and  detailed  sketch  of  Hon.  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee,  see  the  “ Bio- 
graphical Sket  h ” by  Mrs.  J.  Sadlier  in  McGee’s  “ Poems.” 


Thomas  D Arcy  McGee. 


In  the  forest’s  far  recesses. 

When  the  moon  shines  in  at  night. 

The  Celtic  cross  now  blesses 
The  weary  wanderer’s  sight  ! 

My  son,  my  son  ! there  falleth 
Deeper  darkness  on  my  eyes  ; 

And  the  Guardian  Angel  calleth 
Me  by  name  from  out  the  skies. 

Dear,  my  son,  I charge  thee  cherish 
Christ’s  holy  cross  o’er  all ; 

Let  whatever  else  may  perish, 

Let  whatever  else  may  fall ! 


THE  CELTIC  CROSS. 

Through  storm  and  fire  and  gloom  I see  it  stand. 
Firm,  broad,  and  tall — 

The  Celtic  Cross  that  marks  our  fatherland, 

Amid  them  all ! 

Druids  and  Danes  and  Saxons  vainly  rage 
Around  its  base ; 

It  standeth  shock  on  shock  and  age  on  age, 

Star  of  our  scattered  race. 

0 holy  Cross  ! dear  symbol  of  the  dread 
Death  of  our  Lord, 

Around  thee  long  have  slept  our  martvr-dead. 
Sward  over  sward ! 

A hundred  bishops  I myself  can  count 
Among  the  slain ; 

Chiefs,  captains,  rank  and  file,  a shining  mount 
Of  God’s  ripe  grain. 

The  recreant’s  hate,  the  Puritan’s  claymore, 

Smote  thee  not  down ; 

On  headland  steep,  on  mountain  summit  hoar, 

In  mart  and  town ; 


lO 


8 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

In  Glendalough,  in  Ara,  in  Tyrone, 

We  find  thee  still, 

Thy  open  arms  still  stretching  to  thine  own, 

O’er  town,  and  lough,  and  hill. 

And  they  would  tear  thee  out  of  Irish  soil, 

The  guilty  fools ! 

How  Time  must  mock  their  antiquated  toil 
And  broken  tools  ! 

Cranmer  and  Cromwell  from  thy  grasp  retired, 
Baffled  and  thrown  ; 

William  and  Anne  to  sap  thy  site  conspired — 

The  rest  is  known  ! 

Holy  Saint  Patrick,  Father  of  our  Faith, 

Beloved  of  God  ! 

Shield  thy  dear  Church  from  the  impending  scaith 
Or,  if  the  rod 

Must  scourge  it  yet  again,  inspire  and  raise 
To  emprise  high 

Men  like  the  heroic  of  other  days, 

Who  joyed  to  die  ! 

Fear  ! Wherefore  should  the  Celtic  people  fear 
Their  Church’s  fate  ? 

The  day  is  not — the  day  was  never  near — 

Could  desolate 

The  Destined  Island,  all  whose  seedy  clay 
Is  holy  ground ; 

Its  cross  shall  stand  till  that  predestined  day 
When  Erin’s  self  is  drowned  ! 


A SMALL  CATECHISM. 

Why  are  children’s  eyes  so  bright  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  the  infinite 
Which  they’ve  left  is  still  in  sight, 

And  they  know  no  earthly  blight — 
Therefore  ’tis  their  eyes  are  bright. 


Thomas  D Arcy  McGee . 

Why  do  children  laugh  so  gay  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  their  hearts  have  play 
In  their  bosoms  every  day. 

Free  from  sin  and  sorrow’s  sway — 
Therefore  ’tis  they  laugh  so  gay. 

Why  do  children  speak  so  free  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  from  fallacy, 

Cant,  and  seeming  they  are  free  ; 
Hearts,  not  lips,  their  organs  be — 
Therefore  ’tis  they  speak  so  free. 

Why  do  children  love  so  true  ? 

Tell  me  why  ? 

’Tis  because  they  cleave  unto 
A familiar,  favorite  few, 

Without  art  or  self  in  view — 

Therefore  children  love  so  true. 


THE  SHANTY. 

This  is  our  castle  ! enter  in, 

Sit  down,  and  be  at  home,  sir; 

Your  city  friend  will  do,  I hope, 

As  travellers  do  in  Rome,  sir. 

’Tis  plain  the  roof  is  somewhat  low. 

The  sleeping-room  but  scanty, 

Yet  to  the  settler’s  eye,  you  know, 

His  castle  is  his  shanty. 

The  famine  fear  we  saw  of  old 
Is,  like  a nightmare,  over ; 

That  wolf  will  never  break  our  fold 
Nor  round  the  doorway  hover. 

Our  swine  in  droves  tread  down  the  brake. 
Our  sheep-bells  carol  canty, 

Last  night  yon  salmon  swam  the  lake 
That  now  adorns  our  shanty. 


66o 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


That  bread  we  break,  it  is  our  own, 

It  grew  around  our  feet,  sir, 

It  pays  no  tax  to  squire  or  crown, 

Which  makes  it  double  sweet,  sir  ! 

A woodman  leads  a toilsome  life, 

And  a lonely  one,  I grant  ye  ; 

Still,  with  his  children,  friend,  and  wife. 
How  happy  is  his  shanty  ! 

No  feudal  lord  o’erawes  us  here, 

Save  the  ever-bless’d  Eternal ; 

To  him  is  due  the  fruitful  year. 

Both  autumnal  and  vernal. 

We’ve  rear’d  to  him,  down  in  the  dell, 

A temple,  neat  though  scanty. 

And  we  can  hear  its  blessed  bell 
On  Sunday  in  our  shanty. 

This  is  our  castle  ! enter  in, 

Sit  down,  and  be  at  home,  sir  ; 

Your  city  friend  will  do,  I hope, 

As  travellers  do  in  Rome,  sir. 

’Tis  plain  the  roof  is  somewhat  low. 

The  sleeping-room  but  scanty. 

Yet  to  the  settler’s  eye,  you  know. 

His  castle  is  his  shanty. 


TO  MISS  M.  SADLIER. 

These  humorous  lines  were  placed  in  a little  Indian  basket  presented  by  Mr. 
McGee  to  the  young  daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  James  Sadlier,  Montreal. 

Ik  a dream  of  the  night  I this  casket  received 
From  the  ghost  of  the  late  Hiawatha  deceased, 

And  these  were  the  words  he  spoke  in  my  ear  : 

<f  Mr.  D’Arcy  New  Era,6  attention  and  hear. 

You  know  Minnehaha,  the  young  Laughing-Water, 

Mr.  Sadlier  of  Montreal’s  dear  eldest  daughter ; 

To  her  bring  this  trifle,  and  say  that  I ask  it, 

She’ll  treasure  for  my  sake  the  light  little  casket.” 

* At  that  time  Mr.  McGee  was  publishing  in  Montreal  a journal  called  the  New  Era. 


“Thomas  D' Arcy  McGee. 


66 1 

This  said,  in  his  own  solemn  Longfellow  way, 

With  a bow  of  his  plumed  head,  he  vanish’d  away. 

As  I hope  to  be  spared  all  such  ghostly  commands, 

I now  place  the  said  Indian  toy  in  your  hands. 

August  15,  1857. 


DEATH  OF  THE  HOMEWARD-BOUND. 

Paler  and  thinner  the  morning  moon  grew, 

Colder  and  sterner  the  rising  wind  blew, 

The  pole-star  had  set  in  a forest  of  cloud. 

And  the  icicles  crackled  on  spar  and  on  shroud. 

When  a voice  from  below  we  feebly  heard  cry  : 

“ Let  me  see,  let  me  see  my  own  land  ere  I die. 

“ Ah  ! dear  sailor,  say,  have  we  sighted  Cape  Clear  ? 

Can  you  see  any  sign  ? Is  the  morning  light  near  ? 

You  are  young,  my  brave  boy  ; thanks,  thanks  for  your  hand  ; 
Help  me  up  till  I get  a last  glimpse  of  the  land. 

Thank  Cod  ! ’tis  the  sun  that  now  reddens  the  sky ; 

I shall  see,  I shall  see  my  own  land  ere  I die. 

“ Let  me  lean  on  your  strength  ; I am  feeble  and  old. 

And  one  half  of  my  heart  is  already  stone  cold. 

Forty  years  work  a change ; when  I first  crossed  this  sea  ; 
There  were  few  on  the  deck  that  could  grapple  with  me. 

But  my  youth  and  my  prime  in  Ohio  went  by, 

And  I’m  come  back  to  see  the  old  spot  ere  I die.” 

’Twas  a feeble  old  man,  and  he  stood  on  the  deck, 

His  arm  around  a kindly  young  mariner’s  neck. 

His  ghastly  gaze  fixed  on  the  tints  of  the  east, 

As  a starveling  might  stare  at  the  sound  of  a feast. 

The  morn  quickly  rose,  and  revealed  to  the  eye 
The  land  he  had  prayed  to  behold  and  then  die. 

Green,  green  was  the  shore,  though  the  year  was  near  done, 
High  and  haughty  the  capes  the  white  surf  dashed  upon  ; 

A gray,  ruined  convent  was  down  by  the  strand, 

And  the  sheep  fed  afar  on  the  hills  of  the  land. 

“ God  be  with  you,  dear  Ireland  !”  he  gasped  with  a sigh  ; 

“I  lived  to  behold  you — I’m  ready  to  die.” 


662 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland \ 


He  .sank  by  the  hour,  and  his  pulse  ’gan  to  fail 
As  we  swept  by  the  headland  of  storied  Kinsale. 

Off  Ardigna  Bay  it  came  slower  and  slower. 

And  his  corpse  was  clay-cold  when  we  sighted  Tramore. 
At  Passage  we  waked  him,  and  now  he  doth  lie 
In  the  lap  of  the  land  he  beheld  but  to  die. 


JACQUES  CARTIER. 7 

Iin  the  seaport  of  St.  Malo,  ’twas  a smiling  morn  in  May, 

When  the  Commodore  Jacques  Cartier  to  the  westward  sailed  away. 
In  the  crowded  old  cathedral  all  the  town  were  on  their  knees, 

For  the  safe  return  of  kinsmen  from  the  undiscovered  seas ; 

And  every  autumn  blast  that  swept  o’er  pinnacle  and  pier 
Filled  manly  hearts  with  sorrow  and  gentle  hearts  with  fear. 

A year  passed  o’er  St.  Malo  ; again  came  round  the  day 

When  the  Commodore  Jacques  Cartier  to  the  westward  sailed  away. 

But  no  tidings  from  the  absent  had  come  the  way  they  went, 

And  tearful  were  the  vigils  that  many  a maiden  spent ; 

And  manly  hearts  were  filled  with  gloom,  and  gentle  hearts  with 
fear, 

When  no  tidings  came  from  Cartier  at  the  closing  of  the  year. 

But  the  earth  is  as  the  future,  it  hath  its  hidden  side. 

And  the  captain  of  St.  Malo  was  rejoicing  in  his  pride. 

In  the  forests  of  the  North,  while  his  townsmen  mourned  his  loss. 
He  was  rearing  on  Mount  Royal  the  fleur-de-lis  and  cross ; 

And  when  two  months  were  over  and  added  to  the  year, 

St.  Malo  hailed  him  home  again,  cheer  answering  to  cheer. 

He  told  them  of  a region,  hard,  iron-bound,  and  cold. 

Nor  seas  of  pearl  abounded,  nor  mines  of  shining  gold ; 

Where  the  wind  from  Thule  freezes  the  word  upon  the  lip. 

And  the  ice  in  spring  comes  sailing  athwart  the  early  ship. 

He  told  them  of  the  frozen  scene  until  they  thrilled  with  fear. 

And  piled  fresh  fuel  on  the  hearth  to  make  him  better  cheer. 


7 The  famous  Catholic  discoverer  of  Canada.  It  was  he  who  conferred  upon  the  most 
beautiful  and  majestic  river  in  the  world  the  name  of  St.  Lawrence. 


Thomas  D Arcy  McGee. 


663 


But  when  he  changed  the  strain,  he  told  how  soon  is  cast 
In  early  spring  the  fetters  that  hold  the  waters  fast ; 

How  the  winter  causeway,  broken,  is  drifted  out  to  sea, 

And  the  rills  and  rivers  sing  with  pride  the  anthem  of  the  free ; 
How  the  magic  wand  of  summer  clad  the  landscapes,  to  his  eyes, 
Like  the  dry  bones  of  the  just  when  they  wake  in  Paradise. 

He  told  them  of  the  Algonquin  braves,  the  hunters  of  the  wild ; 

Of  how  the  Indian  mother  in  the  forest  rocks  her  child ; 

Of  how,  poor  souls  ! they  fancy  in  every  living  thing 
A spirit,  good  or  evil,  that  claims  their  worshipping; 8 
Of  how  they  brought  their  sick  and  maimed  for  him  to  breathe 
upon, 

And  of  the  wonders  wrought  for  them  through  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John. 

He  told  them  of  the  river 9 whose  mighty  current  gave 
Its  freshness  for  a hundred  leagues  to  ocean’s  briny  wave ; 

He  told  them  of  the  glorious  scene  presented  to  his  sight 
What  time  he  reared  the  cross  and  crown  on  Hochelaga’s  height, 
And  of  the  fortress  cliff 10  that  keeps  of  Canada  the  key, 

And  they  welcomed  back  J acques  Cartier  from  his  perils  o’er  the  sea. 


THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN’S  KNIGHT. 

A Ballad  of  the  Crusades. 

Beneath  the  stars  in  Palestine  seven  knights  discoursing  stood, 

But  not  of  warlike  work  to  come,  nor  former  fields  of  blood, 

Nor  of  the  joy  the  pilgrims  feel,  prostrated  far,  who  see 
The  hill  where  Christ’s  atoning  blood  poured  down  the  penal  tree. 
Their  theme  was  old,  their  theme  was  new,  ’twas  sweet  and  yet 
’twas  bitter ; 

Of  noble  ladies  left  behind  spoke  cavalier  and  ritter. 

And  eyes  grew  bright  and  sighs  arose  from  every  iron  breast 
For  a dear  wife  or  plighted  maid  far  in  the  widowed  West. 

8 For  an  account  of  Indian  belief  and  superstition  see  “ Popular  History  of  the  Catholic 
Church  in  the  United  States,”  by  John  O’Kane  Murray,  chap,  i.,  p.  43. 

9 The  St.  Lawrence. 

10  Quebec. 


664 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Toward  the  knights  came  Constantine,  thrice  noble  by  his  birth, 
And  ten  times  nobler  than  his  blood  his  high  ont-shining  worth. 

His  step  was  slow,  his  lips  were  moved,  though  not  a word  he  spoke. 
Till  a gallant  lord  of  Lombardy  his  spell  of  silence  broke. 

“What  aileth  thee,  0 Constantine  ! that  solitude  you  seek  ? 

If  counsel  or  if  aid  you  need,  we  pray  thee  but  to  speak  ; 

Or  dost  thou  mourn,  like  other  freres,  thy  ladylove  afar, 

Whose  image  shine th  nightly  through  yon  European  star  ? ” 

Then  answered  courteous  Constantine:  “ Good  sir,  in  simple  truth, 
I chose  a gracious  lady  in  the  heyday  of  my  youth ; 

I wear  her  image  on  my  heart,  and  when  that  heart  is  cold 
The  secret  must  be  rifled  thence,  but  never  must  be  told. 

For  her  I love  and  worship  well  by  light  of  morn  or  even ; 

I ne’er  shall  see  my  mistress  dear  until  we  meet  in  heaven ; 

But  this  believe,  brave  cavaliers,  there  never  was  but  one 
Such  lady  as  my  ladylove  beneath  the  blessed  sun.” 

He  ceased,  and  passed  with  solemn  step  on  to  an  olive  grove, 

And  kneeling  there  he  prayed  a prayer  to  the  lady  of  his  love  ; 

And  many  a cavalier  whose  lance  had  still  maintained  his  own 
Beloved  to  reign  without  a peer,  all  earth’s  unequalled  one, 

Looked  tenderly  on  Constantine  in  camp  and  in  the  fight ; 

With  wonder  and  with  generous  pride  they  marked  the  lightning 
light 

Of  his  fearless  sword  careering  through  the  unbeliever’s  ranks, 

As  angry  Rhone  sweeps  off  the  vines  that  thicken  on  his  banks. 

“ He  fears  not  death,  come  when  it  will ; he  longeth  for  his  love. 
And  fain  would  find  some  sudden  path  to  where  she  dwells  above. 
How  should  he  fear  for  dying  when  his  mistress  dear  is  dead  ? ” 
Thus  often  of  Sir  Constantine  his  watchful  comrades  said ; 

Until  it  chanced  from  Zion  wall  the  fatal  arrow  flew 
That  pierced  the  outworn  armor  of  his  faithful  bosom  through  ; 
And  never  was  such  mourning  made  for  knight  in  Palestine 
As  thy  loyal  comrades  made  for  thee,  beloved  Constantine  ! 

Beneath  the  royal  tent  the  bier  was  guarded  night  and  day, 

Where,  with  a halo  round  his  head,  the  Christian  champion  lay. 
That  talisman  upon  his  breast,  what  marvel  may  that  be 
Which  kept  his  ardent  soul  through  life  from  every  error  free  ? 


Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee, 


665 


Approach  ! behold  ! nay,  worship  there  the  image  of  his  love, 

The  heavenly  Queen  who  reigneth  all  the  sacred  hosts  above  ; 

Nor  wonder  that  around  his  bier  there  lingers  such  a light. 

For  the  spotless  one  that  sleepeth  was  the  Blessed  Virgin’s 
Knight  ! 


IT  IS  EASY  TO  DIE. 

It  is  easy  to  die 
When  one’s  work  is  done. 

To  pass  from  the  earth 
Like  a harvest  day’s  sun. 

After  opening  the  flowers  and  ripening  the  grain 
Round  the  homes  and  the  scenes  where  our  friends  remain. 

It  is  easy  to  die 

When  one’s  work  is  done, 

Like  Simeon,  the  priest. 

Who  saw  God’s  Son  ; 

In  the  fulness  of  years,  and  the  fulness  of  faith, 

It  is  easy  to  sleep  on  the  clay  couch  of  death. 

But  it  is  hard  to  die 
While  one’s  native  land 
Has  scarce  strength  to  cry 
’Neath  the  spoiler’s  hand. 

0 merciful  God  ! vouchsafe  that  I 
May  see  Ireland  free ; then  let  me  die  ! 


I LOVE  THEE,  MARY  ! 

I may  reveal  it  to  the  night. 

Where  lurks  around  no  tattling  fairy. 
With  only  stars  and  streams  in  sight — 

I love,  I love  thee,  Mary  ! 

Your  smile  is  like  the  dawn 

New  breaking  on  the  traveller  weary ; 
My  heart  is,  bird-like,  to  it  drawn — 

I love,  I love  thee,  Mary  ! 


666 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Your  voice  is  like  the  August  wind, 

That  of  rich  perfume  is  not  chary, 

But  leaves  its  sweetness  long  behind, 

As  thou  dost,  lovely  Mary  ! 

Your  step  is  like  the  sweet,  sweet  spring, 
That  treads  the  flowers  with  feet  so  airy. 
And  makes  its  green,  enchanted  ring, 

As  thou  dost,  where  thou  comest,  Mary  ! 


AM  I REMEMBERED  IN  ERIN  ? 

Am  I remembered  in  Erin  ? 

I charge  you  speak  me  true  ; 

Has  my  name  a sound,  a meaning 
In  the  scenes  my  boyhood  knew  ? 
Does  the  heart  of  the  mother  ever 
Becall  her  exile’s  name  ? 

Eor  to  be  forgot  in  Erin 
And  on  earth  is  all  the  same. 

0 Mother,  Mother  Erin  ! 

Many  sons  your  age  has  seen — 

Many  gifted,  constant  lovers 

Since  your  mantle  first  was  green. 
Then  how  may  I hope  to  cherish 
The  dream  that  I could  be 
In  your  crowded  memory  numbered 
With  that  palm-crown’d  companie  ? 

Yet  faint  and  far,  my  mother. 

As  the  hope  shines  on  my  sight, 

1 cannot  choose  but  watch  it 

Till  my  eyes  have  lost  their  light ; 
For  never  among  your  brightest. 

And  never  among  your  best, 

Was  heart  more  true  to  Erin 
Than  beats  within  my  breast. 


Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee. 


667 


REBUKE  TO  THE  IGNORANT  KNOW-NOTHINGS. 

[From  “ Lectures  on  the  Catholic  History  of  North  America.”] 

You  make  the  term  foreigner  a reproach  to  us.  Who  are  you  ? 
Children  or  grandchildren  of  foreigners.  And  we,  who  are  we? 
The  parentage  of  native  generations,  destined  to  rule  this  continent 
in  conjunction  with  your  children’s  children.  In  one  sense  we  are 
all  foreigners  to  America  ; European  civilization  is  foreign  to  it ; 
white  complexions  are  foreign  to  it ; the  Christian  religion  is  foreign 
to  it. 

The  term  conveys  no  stigma  to  the  well-informed  mind.  The 
man  of  reading  and  reflection  knows  that  at  one  time  or  other  it 
was  true  of  all  humanity ; true  of  the  first  man,  as  it  may  be  of  the 
last.  The  history  of  our  race  is  a history  of  emigration.  In  Asia 
Eden  was,  but  without  Eden  lay  the  world.  The  first  emigrants 
were  that  sad  pair  who  travelled  into  the  outer  darkness,  lighted  by 
the  glare  of  the  fiery  sword  threatening  at  their  backs.  When  their 
ears  no  longer  caught  the  rustling  of  the  trees  of  Paradise,  or  the 
flow  of  its  living  waters,  they  felt  themselves  truly  emigrants. 

“ Some  natural  tears  they  shed,  but  dried  them  soon  * 

The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 
A place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide.  ” 

Upon  what  consolation  did  our  first  parents  rest  ? Upon  labor  and 
upon  hope — “ Go  forth  and  fill  the  earth  and  subdue  it,”  and  the 
promised  Messiah.  Since  then  the  story  of  their  posterity  has  been 
the  same.  Westward  with  the  sun  they  travelled  from  the  first, 
keeping  on  earth  an  apparent  parallel  to  his  apparent  course. 

The  cities  of  Enoch — Babylon,  Nineveh,  Tyre,  Thebes,  Carthage, 
Rome — what  are  they  ? Landmarks  and  tidemarks  of  the  endless 
emigration.  In  the  days  before  history,  in  the  mountain  mists  of 
tradition,  we  see  the  dim  forms  of  pioneers  and  leaders  carrying 
their  tribes  from  old  homes  to  new  homes  over  mountains  and 
across  straits  and  through  the  labyrinth  of  the  primeval  wilderness. 
All  mythology  is  a story  about  emigrants,  and  the  tale  did  not  end 
when  Hercules  set  up  his  pillars  at  the  Strait  of  Gades,11  and  for- 
bade his  descendants  to  tempt  the  exterior  ocean.  The  fearless 
Phoenician  came,  and  swept  by  without  slacking  sail  or  heeding  Her* 
cules.  He  went  and  came  and  went,  disenchanting  mankind  of 
their  fears.  The  Romans  talked  of  having  reached  the  earth’s  uU 


Now  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar. 


66  3 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


tima,  and  so  Europe  rested  for  ages,  in  the  full  belief  of  the  Roman 
geography.  At  last  Columbus  rose,  that  inspired  sailor  who,  dedi- 
cating his  ship  and  himself  to  the  protection  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
launched  fearlessly  into  the  undiscovered  sea,  and  introduced  the 
new  world  to  the  acquaintance  of  the  old.  After  Columbus  we 
came,  borne  onward  by  the  destiny  of  humanity  in  obedience  to  the 
primitive  charter  of  our  race — “ Go  forth  and  fill  the  earth  and 
subdue  it ; and  in  the  sweat  of  your  brow  you  shall  earn  your 
bread.” 

The  Irish  emigrant  stands  on  this  high  ground,  and,  so  standing, 
he  can  look  the  past  fearlessly  in  the  face.  He  has  no  cause  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  predecessors  here.  If  they  founded  no  exclusive 
New  Ireland , the  blood  of  no  extermined  Indian  tribe  rises  in  judg- 
ment against  them  ; if  they  were  sole  proprietors  of  no  province, 
neither  have  they  to  answer  for  enslaving  the  African.  They  were 
here  subordinates  in  power,  but  principals  in  labor.  They  could 
say — and  we  may  say  for  them — that  in  no  department  of  American 
development  have  the  Irish  mind  and  the  Irish  arm  been  unfelt. 

We  have  given  the  Union,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  its  greatest 
speculative  and  its  greatest  practical  statesmen — John  C.  Calhoun 
and  Andrew  Jackson.  We  have  given  the  Union  two  Vice-Presi- 
dents, nine  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  six  authors 
of  the  Constitution,  ten  major-generals  to  its  army,  and  six  commo- 
dores to  its  navy.12  In  science,  in  authorship,  in  oratory,  we  have 
been  represented  as  well  as  in  digging,  delving,  and  carrying  the 
hod.  We  can  look  history  in  the  face,  and,  putting  our  hands  upon 
any  part  of  the  fabric  of  the  state,  we  can  say  as  a people  : ((This 
was  partly  our  work.” 


THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH  AND  THE  IRISH  IN  AMERICA. 

[From  “ Lectures  on  the  Catholic  History  of  North  America.”] 

Looking  at  it  merely  as  a social  agent,  the  Catholic  Church  in 
America  is  of  the  utmost  importance.  To  her  appertains  the  science 
of  theology — the  soul  that  originally  in-formed  the  framework  of  our 
civilization.  Her  doctrine  is  a system  within  which  the  grandest 
intellects  have  ample  range  ; her  spirit  is  one  of  true  progress  and 
real  conservatism  ; one  which  looks  to  truth,  and  not  to  popularity ; 
to  all  time,  and  not  to  the  passion  or  fashion  of  the  hour.  As  a 
mistress  of  philosophy,  as  a bulwark  of  order,  as  a stay  of  law,  the 

12  This  lecture  was  delivered  in  1854. 


Thomas  D A rcy  McGee. 


669 


Catholic  Church  is,  socially,  the  most  important  of  all  religious  in- 
stitutions to  the  peace  and  harmony  of  this  confederation.  Its  silent 
power  attracts  to  it  all  studious  minds,  and,  by  attraction  or  repul- 
sion, its  presence  is  felt  in  every  pulse  and  at  every  pore  of  American 
society. 

To  us  Catholics  it  is  much  more  than  a great  social  institution. 
It  is  the  pillar  and  the  ground  of  truth  ; it  is  the  work  of  God,  and 
partakes  of  the  attributes  of  its  Author.  Its  decrees  are  justice  it- 
self ; its  mercy  is  inexhaustible ; its  love  is  inexpressible ; its  glory 
is  incomprehensible.  All  other  institutions  which  exist  on  earth 
the  soul  of  man  can  fathom  without  fear ; but  this  divine  founda- 
tion is  rooted  in  the  eternal  tides,  and  he  who  seeks  with  his  paltry 
plummet  to  fathom  them  seeks  confusion  and  his  own  shame.  The 
Catholic  Church  partakes,  even  in  space,  of  the  magnificence  of  its 
Maker.  The  morning  sun,  as  he  steps  forth  out  of  his  chamber  in 
the  east,  salutes  it  first  of  earthly  objects,  and  the  noonday  sun 
looks  down  and  cries : “ Lo  ! it  is  here  also  ! ” and  the  evening  sun, 
as  he  passes  away  into  the  furthest  west,  lingers  awhile  upon  its 
turrets,  and  pays  a parting  visit  to  its  altars. 

To  us  it  is  the  Church  of  our  fathers,  the  Church  of  our  exile,  the 
Church  of  our  children.  It  is  poetry,  it  is  history,  it  is  art,  it  is 
society,  it  is  truth  itself.  No  wonder,  then,  that  every  attack  upon 
it  sounds  in  our  ears  as  a profanation  ; no  wonder  we  should  prefer 
to  hear  every  wrong  the  passions  of  the  mob  can  plan  or  execute 
rather  than  for  one  moment  to  doubt  or  deny  that  Holy  Church. 

The  Irish  Catholics  in  America  have  been  chiefly  instrumental  in 
bringing  their  faith  into  this  country.  They  stand  here  in  their 
highest  relation  to  the  destiny  of  America  as  church-builders.  They 
have  paid  back  the  money  of  the  Puritan  by  acclimating  the  cross 
in  the  atmosphere  of  the  Puritan.  They  have  made  it  known 
that  the  twenty-fifth  of  December  is  Christmas-day,  and  that  God 
is  to  be  honored  in  his  saints.  They  have  practically  brought  to 
the  American  mind  the  idea  that  marriage  is  a holy  sacrament,  not 
a civil  contract.  In  their  small  catechism  they  have  introduced  the 
profoundest  system  of  Christian  philosophy.  All  this  they  have 
done  out  of  their  poverty,  but  not  without  exciting  derision,  scorn, 
envy,  jealousy,  and  fear — the  whole  tribe  of  the  meaner  passions  of 
human  nature.  A tree  of  that  size  does  not  lift  itself  aloft  without 
catching  the  gale,  nor  strike  its  strong  roots  around  it  without  dis- 
turbing the  earth. 


MOST  REV.  JOHN  MACH  ALE,  D.D., 


ARCHBISHOP  OF  TUA31. 

“ The  Lion  of  the  Fold  of  Judah.” — O'Connell. 

“ Noble  old  man ! thy  steadfast  fifty  years, 

Mitred  with  honor,  yet  with  many  woes, 

Have  seen  hope’s  sunshine  follow  bitter  tears, 

Though  Erin’s  friends  oft  spoke  like  Erin’s  foes  1 
No  parchment  makes  thy  glory,  nor  hath  man 
A part  in  aught  which  doth  to  thee  belong  ; 

Thy  title  to  our  love  hath  ever  ran 
In  tattle  for  the  Right,  in  hating  Wrong  ! ” 

“ He  stands  yet,  calm  and  majestic  as  the  grand  old  mountains  01  his  native 
Connemara,  ruling  his  flock  in  wisdom  and  power,  and  heeding  but  little  the 
angry  assaults  of  those  who  cannot  reach  his  altitude.” — Nun  of  Kenmare. 

M rTlHE  mysterious  hand  which  governs  the  universe/’  says  the 

-L  profound  Balmes,  “ seems  to  hold  an  extraordinary  man  in 
reserve  for  every  great  crisis  of  society.”  It  is  in  this  light  that  we 
view  Archbishop  MacHale  and  his  illustrious  career. 

John  MacHale  was  born  in  the  year  1791,  at  Tobarnavian,  a vil- 
lage situated  at  the  foot  of  Mount  N ephin  in  the  beautiful  and  his- 
toric valley  of  Nephin,  the  most  romantic  district  in  the  county  of 
Mayo.  He  belongs  to  an  ancient  and  honorable  Irish  family,  which 
nobly  sacrificed  its  grandeur  in  this  world  that  it  might  preserve  it 
in  the  next. 

“The  Archbishop  of  Tuam,”  writes  the  Nun  of  Kenmare,  “is 
directly  descended  from  Bishop  Mac  Caile,  who  received  the  pro- 
fession of  St.  Bridget.  His  family  lived  for  centuries  in  the  valley 
where  Amalgaid,  then  king  of  that  county,  met  St.  Patrick,  near 
the  wood  of  Fochut.”  1 

The  spot  of  his  nativity,  encircled  with  scenery  grand  and  roman- 
tic, with  hills,  lakes,  and  woods,  and  enriched  with  classic  legends, 
proud  historic  recollections,  and  the  glories  of  ancient  Celtic  poetry 
and  valor,  was  well  calculated  to  inspire  the  child  of  genius  with 

1 “ Life  of  Daniel  O’Connell,”  p.  520,  note. 

670 


Most  Rev . John  Mac II ale,  D.D. 


671 


high  aspirations,  generous  thoughts,  lofty  aims,  and,  above  all,  and 
before  all,  with  a deep  and  lasting  love  of  faith  and  fatherland.2 

From  the  parish  school  young  MacIIale  passed  to  an  institution 
in  the  town  of  Castlebar,  where  he  completed  his  classical  studies. 

In  1807  he  entered  Maynooth  College.  An  earnest  and  success- 
ful student,  he  carried  off  the  highest  honors  of  his  famous  Alma 
Mater.  He  devoted  great  attention  to  modern  languages  and  litera- 
ture, making  himself  familiar  with  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  and 
German.  He  read  English  literature  extensively.  Shakspeare  and 
Edmund  Burke,  it  is  said,  were  his  favorite  authors. 

In  1819,  but  a few  years  after  his  ordination.  Father  MacHale 
was  appointed  to  the  high  and  very  responsible  position  of  Professor 
of  Dogmatic  Theology  in  Maynooth.  He  was  elevated  to  the  episco- 
pate on  the  5th  of  June,  1825,  being  consecrated  Coadjutor  Bishop 
of  Killala,  his  native  diocese,  with  the  title  of  Bishop  of  Maronia 
in  partibus,  by  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Murray,  Archbishop  of  Dublin. 
Bishop  MacHale  visited  the  Continent  in  1831.  On  reaching  Rome 
Pope  Gregory  XYI.  received  him  with  marked  kindness,  and  just 
before  leaving  the  Eternal  City,  the  Holy  Father  presented  him  with 
a gold  chalice  of  exquisite  workmanship.  It  was  during  this 
memorable  journey  that  Dr.  MacHale  visited  the  spots  made  dear 
and  venerable  by  Irish  sanctity  or  Irish  valor.  “ The  paths  of 
our  countrymen,”  he  wrote,  “ you  can  track  by  the  streaks  of  glory 
that  still  linger  on  the  lands  which  they  traversed,  and  in  the  sanc- 
tuaries of  their  most  magnificent  cathedrals,  as  well  as  in  the  hearts 
of  their  present  inhabitants,  their  ashes  or  their  memories  are  de- 
voutly enshrined.” 3 

In  1834  Dr.  MacHale  was  raised  to  the  Metropolitan  see  of 
Tuarn.  At  the  Council  of  the  Vatican  he  was  the  senior  archbishop 
of  the  world  and  sat  next  to  the  patriarchs.  In  June,  1875,  the 
great  old  man  celebrated  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  episcopate. 

Here  we  make  no  attempt  to  write  the  life  of  Archbishop  Mac- 
Hale. We  merely  glance  at  it,  noting  a few  dates  and  events.  The 
story  of  his  bright  career  would  be  the  history  of  right  against 
wrong,  in  Ireland,  for  over  half  a century. 

The  greatest  of  living  Irishmen,  he  holds,  and  justly  holds,  the 
first  place  in  the  affections  of  the  Irish  race  the  world  over. 


2 See  the  venerable  Archbishop’s  graphic  description  of  his  birthplace  in  his  letter, 

p.  681. 

3 “ Letters  ” of  Archbishop  MacHale. 


672 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


One  evening,  during  his  attendance  at  the  Synod  of  Thurles  in 
1850,  Dr.  MacHale  and  a brother  prelate  went  to  take  an  evening 
walk  in  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  They  had  not  proceeded  far 
when  a stalwart  Tipperary  peasant  reverently  approached,  and, 
kneeling  before  one  of  the  prelates,  asked  his  blessing.  After  a 
moment’s  silence,  however,  the  man  raised  his  head,  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  bishop’s  face,  and  asked:  “Are  you  Archbishop  MacHale  ?” 
“No,”  replied  the  bishop;  “this  is  the  person,”  pointing  to  his 
companion.  “Well,  my  Lord,”  said  the  brave  peasant  firmly  and 
calmly,  “I  want  no  blessing  but  that  of  Archbishop  MacHale,” 
and  immediately  kneeling  at  the  archbishop’s  feet  he  received 
the  blessing  of  the  great  Irish  patriarch,  and  went  his  way 
rejoicing.4 

“He  is,”  says  an  able  writer,  “truly  the  uncrowned  monarch  of 
that  faithful,  chivalrous,  and  warm-hearted  people,  no  matter  in 
what  quarter  of  the  globe  their  lot  may  be  cast.  Their  friends  have 
been  his  friends,  and  their  enemies  his  enemies.  True  as  the  needle 
to  the  pole  to  the  ennobling  traditions  of  his  heroic  and  martyred 
ancestors,  he  has,  for  nearly  sixty  years,  advocated  the  rights  of  his 
countrymen  with  unpurchasable  fidelity  and  unconquerable  courage. 
With  a voice  loud  as  that  of  the  tempest,  loud  as  the  angry  ocean, 
loud  as  that  which  pealed  from  Sinai,  he  has  denounced  their 
wrongs  before  earth  and  high  heaven  ; branded  their  hereditary  foes 
with  infamy ; resisted  every  open  attack,  and  exposed  every  covert 
assault  on  the  rights  and  freedom  of  his  episcopal  brethren.  Like 
the  seraph  Abdiel,  he  has  kept  his  loyalty,  his  love,  his  zeal.  No 
opposition  could  shake  for  a moment  his  unbending  courage;  no 
tempting  offer  could  seduce  him  from  the  path  of  patriotism ; no 
threats  could  terrify  him.  No  wily  English  statesman  could  ever 
overreach  him,  ever  mislead  him ; yet  English  policy  and  intrigue 
sometimes  deceived  Grattan,  deluded  O’Connell,  and  made  dupes 
and  victims  of  other  distinguished  Irishmen.  It  is  a remarkable 
fact  that  Archbishop  MacHale  has  never  made  one  political  mistake 
during  his  long  and  glorious  career  ! ” 6 

Dr.  MacHale’s  pen  has  been  a power  for  the  last  fifty-seven  years. 
In  1820  he  came  out  as  a public  writer  of  marked  ability  under  the 
nom  de  plume  of  “ Heriophilos.”  His  letters  attracted  wide  atten- 
tion. He  afterwards  wrote  under  his  various  official  names — John, 

4 The  Catholic  Record  for  June,  1875. 

* Ibid. 


Most  Rev.  John  Mac IJale,  D D. 


673 


Bishop  of  Maronia;  John,  Bishop  of  Killala;  and,  finally,  John, 
Archbishop  of  Tuam.  His  select  public  letters,  edited  by  himself, 
and  extending  from  1820  to  1846,  were  published  in  one  large 
volume  in  1847.  These  letters  rank  with  those  of  Junius  and  Dr. 
Doyle. 

Dr.  MacHale’s  “ Evidences  and  Doctrines  of  the  Catholic  Church,” 
published  in  1827,  is  a masterly  production.  It  has  been  translated 
into  the  French,  German,  and  Italian  languages.  But  the  venerable 
archbishop  is  not  only  an  illustrious  prelate,  patriot,  and  prose 
writer,  he  is  also  an  eminent  poet.  He  has  translated  the  greater 
portion  of  Homer’s  “ Iliad”  into  heroic  Irish  metre;  and,  greater 
than  all,  he  has  enriched  the  ancient  and  noble  literature  of  Ireland 
by  translating  over  eighty  of  Moore’s  Irish  melodies  into  the  Irish 
language  in  the  same  metres  which  Moore  himself  employed.  Irish 
is  the  first  language  that  Dr.  MacHale  spoke,  and,  without  any 
doubt,  he  is  the  greatest  living  master  of  that  language.  His  style, 
like  himself,  is  marked  by  rare  strength  and  dignity.  He  is  one  of 
the  very  few  writers  in  the  history  of  the  world  who  has  enriched  two 
languages  with  the  rich  productions  of  his  golden  pen — masterpieces 
of  English,  masterpieces  of  Irish. 

We  conclude  this  imperfect  sketch  with  a few  stanzas  written  on 
the  occasion  of  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  archbishop’s  episco- 
pate : 


“ Thou  greatest  bishop  at  St.  Peter’s  throne, 

Bent  with  the  weight  of  honored  years  of  toil, 
Like  a round-tower  standing  gray,  alone, 

Upon  thy  native  Erin’s  sacred  soil — 

This  day,  which  seals  thy  fifty  glorious  years 
With  holy  benediction  and  loud  praise, 

Salutes  thee  first  among  thy  mitred  peers. 

Crowned  with  the  laurel-wreath  of  fruitful  days. 


“ Noble  old  man  ! thy  steadfast  fifty  years, 

Mitred  with  honor,  yet  with  many  woes, 

Have  seen  hope’s  sunshine  follow  bitter  tears, 
Though  Erin’s  friends  oft  spoke  like  Erin’s  foes  ! 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

No  parchment  makes  thy  glory,  nor  hath  man 
A part  in  aught  which  doth  to  thee  belong ; 
Thy  title  to  our  love  hath  ever  ran 

In  battle  for  the  right,  in  hating  wrong  ! 


“ Thou  wert  no  whining  hound  at  Saxon  feet. 
Begging  with  expectation,  faint  and  sick, 
Such  countenance  as  to  a dog  were  meet, 

That  equal  boon — a halfpenny  or  kick  ! 

Thou  heldst  too  high  the  glory  of  the  Gael 
To  wear  dishonor’s  badge — a foeman’s  smile ! 
Thou  heart  so  true  to  ancient  Granu  Wail ! 
Thou  strong  right  hand  of  Erin’s  holy  isle  l 


“ Others  might  fall,  but  thou  wert  ever  true. 
Undaunted  patriot,  freedom’s  pioneer  ! 

First  of  the  honest,  great,  immortal  few 
Who  live  in  Ireland’s  heart,  for  ever  dear  ! 
Thy  monument  shall  need  no  epitaph, 

Cold  as  the  marble  it  is  writ  upon  ; 

Millions  shall  wash  with  tears  the  paragraph 
Which  in  God’s  time  shall  cry  : ‘ The  saint  is 


“ The  heart  of  Erin  everywhere  to-day 

Throbs  with  the  magic  of  a mighty  love ; 
‘God  bless  his  life  and  death,’  the  millions  pray, 
f And  crown  him  with  celestial  light  above  ! 9 
Ay,  take  him  to  your  hearts,  ye  exiled  band ; 

For  who  more  worthy  of  the  love  of  Gael 
Than  he  whose  name  is  blest  in  every  land, 

True  patriot-priest,  immortal  John  MacHale  ! 


Most  Rev.  John  Mac  Hale,  D.D.  675 

NJ  t>-FUJl  ZiUSZi  5-CPUJNKie  &0N  CU2D2U2,  N0  5ie&NN.a 

Fot)T) — Se<vT)  ce<vi)t)  Oot)<vc<x. 

I. 

Nf  b-^uil  <vT)f<v  5-c|xUTT)t)e  <vot)  curr)<vfi,  t)0  5le<vi)t), 

2h<vjt  <vt)  1<V5  <v  b-fu^l  c6-f|iuc  t)<v  bfr’  <vb<vt)i)  <vr)T) ; 

Jr  lu<v|ce  bei6e<xr  e<vl<xi5 ce  u<vitt)  tt)’  <xTip<vm),  ’r  tt)o  brifs, 

’KU  crvfoT)r<vr  *1)  5le«u)T)  5Ur  &T1  <^T  n)o  ctioibe. 

II. 

Nf  fie  <vt)  c-<vtt}<v|ic  bfie&5,  <voib^i)T)  bf  r5<v|ic<v  <vpi  5<vc  c<\ob, 

Nf  fie  1ot)I)<v|]x  <vi)  ctiiofc^il,  t)'<x  Uft-bl&c  i)<v  5-c|i<vob, 

Nf  l)e  cort)5<v|i  T)<v  Tt)<vfx  eu5-ceol  TT)T)&-rt5e, 

&cc  1)^6  e^5ii)  i)for  bflre  <*■  i)-boiTt)i)e<vcc  <vt)  crtoibe : 

III. 

S-j<xb  rt)o  c&pibe,  bo  ce<vi)3<v^l  tt)0  ctttt)<vi)T)  ’r  rr >o  cl<voi), 

Oo  rc<vP  <vm  5<^c  -ofb  rseiff)  i)<v  tr)f<vt) ; 

On1  i)f l <vot)  i)fb  b’<v  t)<vc  TT)eoibui5e<u)7)  <v  bl&c, 

0’<v  reicrnit)  c|ie  fudlb  <viT*  <*■  tt)-bfbe<u)r)  <v5<v|i)T)  5tt&b. 

IY. 

& 5le<xi)i)  <voib]T)i)  c<3ic-<xbt)<v,  bub  rtt<Mri)i)c<vc  tt)o 
T<voi  f<vr5<vb  bo  c«vb*vfr)  le  tt}0  c<tji<v  yfdft-bu<vi), 

’F  «vfc  <v  Tt)-be0rt)Uib  6 t)<v  rfoT)c<v|b  e<voi  b]be<vi)  50  r&fri) 

’S  <vfi  5-CTioibce  n)<vjv  bo  c^UT)-f  ftuc<v  co^ti)e<xr5c<v  le  b^vitr 


LETTER  FROM  ROME. 

Rome,  March  27,  1832. 

The  first  of  my  visits  to  manifest  the  homage  of  my  dutiful  reve- 
rence to  the  Holy  Father 7 was  a few  days  after  my  arrival.  It  was, 
to  a Catholic  bishop  from  Ireland,  a visit  fraught  with  consolation. 
Notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  which  an  impious  policy  had  recourse 
to  to  sever  our  connection  with  the  chair  of  Peter — efforts  far  more 
ingenious  in  their  cruelty  than  those  of  the  earlier  persecutions  that 

6 This  is  Dr.  MacHale’s  Irish  translation  of  Moore’s  beautiful  melody,  “The  Meeting 
of  the  Waters.”  For  the  original  in  English,  see  page  509. 

7 Gregory  XVI. 


676  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

lmnted  the  Christians  into  the  catacombs — it  was  a gladsome  intro- 
duction to  be  presented  to  the  good  Father  of  the  Faithful,  and  to 
receive  at  his  feet  the  apostolical  benediction.  He  is  worthy  of  the 
elevation  to  which  he  has  been  raised.  Benevolence  ! it  is  too  weak 
a word  ; affectionate  charity  beams  in  every  feature  of  the  good 
pontiff,  nor  is  there  wanting  that  visible  indication  of  a stern  and 
unbending  intrepidity  of  character  which  will  not  fail  whenever 
it  may  be  necessary  to  vindicate  the  dearest  interests  of  religion. 

The  interval  between  Christmas  and  Easter  was  occupied  in 
visiting  the  most  conspicuous  churches,  galleries,  colleges,  and  libra- 
ries of  Rome,  together  with  occasional  excursions  to  the  remarkable 
places  in  the  vicinity  which  history  and  fable  have  so  much  asso- 
ciated with  the  early  fortunes  of  Rome.  On  the  feast  of  the  Epi- 
phany it  was  a rare  and  interesting  spectacle  to  see  priests  from  the 
different  Eastern  churches,  Armenians,  Greeks,  and  Maronites, 
celebrating  Mass  in  their  own  peculiar  rites  and  in  their  own  respec- 
tive tongues.  The  Sunday  within  its  octave  witnessed  one  of  the 
most  gratifying  exhibitions  which  any  country  could  exhibit,  the 
young  students,  to  the  number  of  about  fifty,  delivering  composi- 
tions before  the  assembled  dignitaries  of  Rome,  in  the  varied  lan- 
guages of  their  respective  countries.  It  was  a scene  which  bore  at- 
testation to  the  Catholics  of  the  faith  of  Rome,  as  well  as  to  the 
union  which  links  its  most  distant  members,  to  see  a number  of 
young  men  brought  up  in  adverse  national  prejudices,  and  speaking 
from  their  infancy  different  languages,  now  assembled  together  and 
moulded  into  one  intellectual  mass,  animated  by  one  spirit,  and, 
like  their  predecessors  of  old,  in  the  day  of  Pentecost,  all  un- 
derstanding through  their  different  dialects  the  voice  and  faith  of 
Peter,  conveyed  in  one  single  language,  is  a continuance  of  the  gift 
of  tongues  still  perpetuated  in  the  Church,  and  which  cannot  fail 
to  make  its  impression  on  a reflecting  and  religious  mind.  In  the 
evening  a large  and  selected  society  of  some  of  the  most  distin- 
guished strangers  in  Rome,  as  well  as  the  natives,  enjoyed  the  ele- 
gant and  princely  hospitality  of  the  Cardinal  Prefect  of  the  Propa- 
ganda. On  that  occasion  Monsignore  Mezophanti8  addressed  a 
large  number  of  the  guests  in  their  respective  European  or  Oriental 
dialects  with  ease,  if  not  with  elegance.  His  acquirements  as  a 
linguist  are  rare  and  extraordinary.  Crassus  and  others  acquired 
great  celebrity  for  their  ready  talent  in  conversing  with  strangers  in 

8 Afterwards  a cardinal.  The  name  is  sometimes  written  Mezzofanti. 


Most  Rev.  John  MacHalc,  D.D. 


6 77 


their  own  language  ; it  is  not,  I am  sure,  any  exaggerated  praise  to 
assert  that  in  variety  of  languages,  or  readiness  in  speaking  them, 
they  could  not  have  reached  the  excellence  of  Mezophanti. 

Among  the  numerous  and  richly-assorted  libraries  with  which 
Rome  abounds,  the  Vatican  is  far  the  first  in  the  number  and  va- 
riety of  its  volumes.  It  may  be,  therefore,  easily  inferred  that  far 
beyond  competition  it  is  the  first  in  the  world.  Its  majestic  en- 
trance is  worthy  of  such  a library,  as  well  as  of  the  celebrated  pope, 
Sixtus  Quintus,  who  contributed  so  much  to  its  literary  treasures  as 
well  as  to  the  embellishment  of  its  architecture.  A magnificent 
picture,  seen  as  you  enter,  exhibits  Fontana,  the  architect,  unfold- 
ing his  plan  to  the  pontiff  ; then  you  behold  on  one  side  a series  of 
the  most  celebrated  libraries  in  the  world,  and  on  the  other  a suc- 
cession of  the  General  Councils  by  which  the  faith  of  the  Catholic 
Church  was  illustrated.  This  library  has  been  generally  entrusted 
to  men  of  vast  erudition,  who  were  able  to  profit  of  its  treasures, 
and  again  to  return  them  with  interest,  enriching  them  with  valua- 
ble productions  of  their  own.  Such  was  Assemani,  whose  Oriental 
researches  conferred  additional  celebrity  on  the  library  of  the 
Vatican.  And  such  is  the  Monsignore  Mai,  the  present  librarian, 
distinguished  for  his  valuable  literary  labors  in  restoring  manu- 
scripts which  were  thought  to  have  been  lost.  His  courtesy  and 
kindness  in  affording  the  easiest  access  to  this  treasury  of  science 
and  of  literature  I feel  much  pleasure  in  acknowledging,  for  it 
earned  a claim  to  my  gratitude. 

But,  indeed,  courtesy  has  been  the  characteristic  quality  of  all  the 
librarians  in  Rome  in  affording  to  visitors  every  facility  of  study 
and  research.  Such  I experienced  at  the  great  libraries  of  Ara 
Cceli  and  the  Minerva,  and  such  too  at  St.  Isidore’s  and  the  Barbe- 
rini  library,  in  which  documents  and  manuscripts  connected  with 
Irish  history  abound.  To  that  of  St.  Isidore  my  visits  were  fre- 
quent, as  I found  there  a number  of  Irish  manuscripts.  Besides,  I 
loved  to  contemplate  the  portraits  of  celebrated  Irishmen  which 
decorate  its  walls,  especially  those  of  two  of  the  most  illustrious 
men  of  their  age  and  nation — Luke  Wadding,  the  learned  author 
of  the  “ Annals  of  the  Franciscans,”  and  Florence  O’Mul  Conry, 
Archbishop  of  Tuam,  to  whose  zeal  and  labors  we  are  indebted  for 
the  foundation  of  Louvain,  and  the  education  of  many  eminent 
men  who  conferred  honor  on  their  country.  When  one  thinks  of 
the  dark  and  difficult  times  in  which  those  men  lived,  and  the 


678 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


miglity  things  they  achieved  for  their  country  and  their  religion,  he 
feels  confirmed  still  more  in  his  holy  faith,  since  they  must  have 
been  endued  with  more  than  human  fortitude  in  achieving  such 
great  enterprises.  I met  but  one  solitary  exception  to  this  general 
disposition  to  accommodate  in  the  keepers  of  the  literary  establish- 
ments in  the  Eternal  City.  This  exception  was  in  the  archives  of 
the  Vatican,  a department  quite  distinct  from  its  library.  It  is  an 
immense  collection  of  documentary  papers  and  instruments,  bulls, 
letters,  and  rescripts  from  the  earlier  ages  to  the  present  time.  I 
was  anxious  to  look  for  some  documents  that  would  throw  light 
upon  our  ecclesiastical  history,  and  enable  me  to  fill  up  some  chasms 
in  the  succession  of  our  bishops  during  the  persecutions.  To  my 
great  surprise,  delay  succeeded  to  delay  in  such  manner  as  to  make  it 
evident  that  the  keeper  wished  to  deny  me  all  access  to  the  records 
which  I sought.  On  animadverting  on  conduct  which  appeared  to 
me  so  unaccountable,  I found  that  the  reverend  gentleman  was  a 
pensioner  of  the  British  Government,  employed  to  send  them  such 
extracts  of  state  papers  as  would  elucidate  the  public  transactions 
connected  with  the  history  of  England.  Here,  in  this  solitary  in- 
stance, I found  the  perverse  influence  of  British  money,  and  drew 
my  conclusion  on  the  misfortune  that  would  come  over  Ireland  if 
ever  the  Government  should  succeed  in  pensioning  the  Catholic 
hierarchy.  This  man’s  sympathies,  duties,  feelings,  seemed  to  be 
all  absorbed  by  his  gratitude  for  British  money.  To  our  oppress- 
ors, as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  archives  were  open ; to  the 
Catholic  victims  of  their  persecution  alone  they  were  inaccessible. 
However,  a gentle  hint  that  I would  look  for  redress  from  the  pon- 
tifical Government — nay,  that  his  conduct  should  be  reported  to 
the  House  of  Commons,  who  might  take  this  reverend  pensioner  to 
task,  wrought  in  him  a kinder  tone  of  feeling,  and  procured  for  me 
a sullen  and  reluctant  admittance.  Amidst  the  huge  mass  of  docu- 
ments I could  not  succeed  in  the  object  of  my  search.  However,  I 
lighted  on  many  rare  and  curious  letters  that  well  recompensed  me 
for  my  loss.  Among  others,  I was  shown  one  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,  written  to  the  pope  in  her  own  hand,  on  the  day  preceding 
her  execution.  It  was  a precious  relic,  which  had  the  appearance 
of  being  discolored  by  tears.  It  is  no  wonder  ; such  a letter  could 
not  be  written  or  read  without  deep  emotion.  It  led  to  a long  train 
of  thought  on  the  checquered  life  and  tragic  death  of  a woman  of 
whom  her  age  was  not  worthy.  Nay,  the  bitter  prejudices  of  her 


Most  Rev.  John  Mac  Hale,  D.D. 


679 


time  seem  to  have  descended  to  posterity.  There  was  no  chivalry 
then  in  justice  to  guard  her  life,  nor  chivalry  in  history  to  vindi- 
cate her  fame.  But  time  will  avenge  her  wrongs,  and  I could 
cheerfully  encounter  more  of  the  sullenness  of  the  pensioned  Ma- 
rini to  have  the  gratification  of  reading  such  an  autograph  belong- 
ing to  this  illustrious  and  ill-used  queen,  whose  misfortunes  created 
a sympathy  which  the  misdeeds  of  the  perfidious  monarchs  of  her 
race  were  not  able  to  obliterate. 

Not  far  from  the  Vatican,  on  the  Janiculum,  the  southern  brow 
of  the  same  hill,  is  a monument  which  will  fail  not  to  tell  the  Irish 
travellers  of  what  their  ancestors  suffered  from  the  offspring  of 
Mary  Stuart.  The  small  Church  of  St.  Peter,  designed  by  Bra- 
mante,  and  which  reminds  you  of  the  Temple  of  Vesta,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tiber,  or  of  the  Arno,  at  Tivoli,  contains  this  melancholy 
monument.  A slab  of  marble  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  the 
names  of  O’Neil  and  O’Donnell,  recalls  to  memory  the  flight  of 
those  noble  chieftains  on  a pretended  conspiracy,  set  on  foot  to  en- 
able the  ungrateful  James  to  partition  among  a horde  of  English 
and  Scottish  Calvinists  their  hereditary  domains,  together  with  six 
counties  of  the  province  of  Ulster.  Few,  whatever  may  be  their 
opinions  or  feelings  on  the  justice  of  those  ancient  quarrels,  or  the 
policy  that  dictated  such  cruel  confiscations,  could  refuse  a sigh  or 
a tear  to  the  memory  of  the  gallant  Tyrone,  the  hero  of  Bealanath- 
buide,  who  had  sustained  so  long  and  so  bravely  the  sinking  for- 
tunes of  his  country  against  the  combined  armies  of  Elizabeth.  It 
was  difficult  to  resist  the  rush  of  feeling  which  was  called  forth  by 
the  contemplation  of  the  close  of  his  career,  as  well  as  by  the  in- 
gratitude of  his  own  degenerate  countrymen.  Here,  bowed  down 
by  misfortune  and  blind  through  age  and  infirmity,  this  gallant 
warrior  closed  his  life  like  another  Belisarius,  outlawed  and  at- 
tainted even  by  the  suffrages  of  those  Catholics  whom  he  saved 
from  utter  ruin,  without  their  interposing  one  solitary  vote  for  his 
protection.  It  is  well  that  Christendom  has  a home  for  the  fallen 
and  the  broken-hearted.  It  is  well  that  there  should  be  some  heal- 
ing asylum  where  one  can  find  refuge  from  the  ingratitude  and 
perfidy  of  the  world.  That  home  has  been,  and  shall  ever  be  found, 
in  the  city  of  the  successors  of  St.  Peter,  and  I closed  this  sad  and 
soothing  train  of  reflections  by  offering  up  a heartfelt  prayer  for 
the  devoted  patriot,  who,  I trust,  has  found  that  lasting  home 
“ where  sorrow  and  grief  shall  be  no  more.” 


6So 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


My  excursions  through  Ostia,  Albani,  Frescati,  and  Tivoli,  etc., 
during  which  I sojourned  chiefly  in  the  convents  that  are  scattered 
throughout  those  districts,  afforded  much  of  instructive  and  agree- 
able relaxation.  The  curiosities  of  those  classic  territories  are  as 
familiar  as  the  territories  themselves  are  far  famed,  nor  shall  I oc- 
cupy the  reader’s  time  by  their  repetition.  The  lives  of  the  solitary 
anchorets  of  Camaldoli  would  appear  too  tame  a narrative  to  some 
who  might  relish  better  more  varied  and  stirring  scenes.  Yet 
among  those  monks  and  such  other  recluses  is  to  be  found  a cheer- 
fulness and  lightness  of  heart  to  which  the  world  is  an  utter 
stranger,  and  which  it  can  never  imagine  to  be  the  inhabitant  of 
such  abodes.  There  was  one  convent  in  particular  which  I felt  pe- 
culiar gratification  in  visiting — that  of  St.  Benedict,  at  Subiaco. 
Here,  near  the  brink  of  the  Arno,  and  under  a line  of  frowning 
rocks,  parallel  to  the  stream,  is  situated  the  monastery  of  the  holy 
and  celebrated  founder  of  the  Benedictines.  Near  is  another,  de- 
dicated to  his  sister,  St.  Scliolastica.  I spent  some  days  in  this  holy 
retreat,  enjoying  the  kind  hospitality  of  the  good  abbot.  In  the 
chapel — partly  formed  out  of  the  cave  in  which  the  saint  lay  con- 
cealed for  three  years,  fed  by  an  intimate  friend — I offered  up  the 
sacrifice  of  the  Mass.  A beautiful  marble  statue  of  the  saint  under 
the  rock,  together  with  the  leaves  bearing  the  impress  of  the  ser- 
pent by  which  he  was  so  tempted  that  he  rolled  himself  amidst  the 
thorns  to  extinguish  the  flames  of  concupiscence,  still  recall  the 
memory  of  his  early  combats  and  his  early  triumphs. 

I returned  to  Borne  before  Palm  Sunday,  remaining  there  during 
the  ceremonies  of  Holy  Week.  It  was  a week  that  embodied  more 
of  the  impressive  lessons  and  practice  of  religion  than  many  other 
weeks  put  together.  Many  visit  Rome  from  afar,  though  unable 
to  remain  longer  than  during  those  few  days,  and  well  do  they  find 
their  toil  and  piety  rewarded.  The  solemn  tones  of  the  Miserere  in 
the  Sixtine  Chapel  make  them  forget  all  their  cares  and  fatigues, 
and  transport  the  soul  to  heaven.  The  kind  and  charitable  attention 
paid  to  the  pilgrims  in  the  establishment  set  apart  for  that  purpose 
makes  such  an  impression  on  strangers,  that  I have  heard  young 
Americans  exclaim  with  wonder  and  delight  that  if  there  was  true 
religion  in  the  world,  it  was  to  be  found  in  the  charity  of  Rome. 
The  washing  of  the  feet  by  the  Holy  Father  is  another  tender  and 
affecting  office,  which  fails  not  to  exhibit  in  the  minds  of  the  as- 
tonished spectators  the  connection  between  him  and  the  Founder 


Most  Rev . John  Mac  Hale,  D.D. 


68 1 

of  the  Church,  whose  humility  and  charity  he  thus  imitates.  In  my 
observations  on  Christmas  day  I have  already  given  some  faint  idea 
of  the  Pontifical  Mass.  The  Pontifical  Mass  of  Easter  Sunday 
brings  an  additional  ceremony  of  most  imposing  solemnity — the 
benediction  from  the  balcony  of  St.  Peter’s.  One  cannot  witness  a 
more  touching  or  magnificent  ceremony.  The  Holy  Father,  accom- 
panied by  the  cardinals,  bishops,  prelates,  and  other  ecclesiastics, 
who  formed  the  procession,  ascended  to  the  centre  of  the  balcony. 
The  vast  square  was  thronged  with  the  moving  multitudes  below. 
Doubtless  there  were  among  them  foreigners  who  differed  in  faith 
from  the  vast  body  of  the  people.  The  pontiff  lifted  his  arm,  waved 
his  hand  in  the  form  of  a cross ; no  sooner  did  he  pronounce  the 
blessing  than  all  knelt,  and,  as  if  under  the  influence  of  the  same 
mysterious  spirit  that  subdued  St.  Paul,  I think  there  was  not  one 
that  was  not  prostrate  to  receive,  through  the  person  of  his  Vicar 
upon  earth,  the  benediction  of  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 

►J*  John,  Bishop  op  Maronia. 


LETTER  FROM  THE  PLACE  OF  HIS  BIRTH. 

Tobarnavian,  July  4,  1834. 

“ Graiorum  cedant  rivnli,  cedant  Romolidum  fontes, 

En  ibi  salubrior  longe,  scaturiens  unda  ; 

Quae  Uvam  sanitare  superans,  nomen  indidit  agro 
Ex  quo  earn  hausere  inclyti  Fianorum  Heroes.” 

“ Air  shriuf  na  Roimhe  ’gus  na  n-Greug, 

Bheir  Tobar  na  bh-fian,  sior  bhar  go  h-eug  ; 

Bhians  de  fhior-uiige  ’g-coghnaid  lann, 

’S  ta  map  shu  caora-fiona,  slann, 

Do  thug  don  bhaille  anim ’s  cail 
0 d’  61  as  Fiana  Innis  Fail.” 

Independently  of  the  beautiful  scenery  by  which  it  is  encom- 
passed, the  spot  from  which  I now  write  possesses  for  me  those 
peculiar  charms  which  are  ever  found  associated  with  the  place  of 
our  birth.  It  is,  I think,  St.  John  Chrysostom  remarks,  contrast- 
ing the  correct  and  truthful  simplicity  of  youth  with  the  false  and 
fastidious  refinement  of  after-life,  that  if  you  present  to  a child  his 
mother  and  a queen,  he  hesitates  not  in  his  preference  of  the  one, 
however  homely  her  costume,  to  the  other,  though  arrayed  in  the 


682 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


richest  attire  of  royalty.  It  is  a feeling  akin  to  that  filial  reve- 
rence which  the  Almighty  has  planted  in  our  breasts  towards  our 
parents  that  extends  also  to  the  place  where  we  first  drew  our  being, 
and  hallows  all  its  early  associations.  This  religious  feeling  is  the 
germ  of  true  patriotism,  radiating  from  the  centre  home,  and  tak- 
ing in  gradually  all  that  is  around,  until  it  embraces  the  entire  of 
our  country.  It  is  this  mysterious  sentiment,  common  alike  to  the 
rude  and  the  civilized,  that  gives  his  country  the  first  place  in  each 
man’s  estimation,  and  makes  him  regard  the  most  refined  or  the 
most  prosperous  as  only  second  to  his  own.  I should  not  value  the 
stoicism  that  wTould  be  indifferent  to  such  a sentiment,  and  if  it  be 
a weakness,  it  is  one  that  is  as  old  as  the  times  of  the  Patriarchs, 
and  which  some  of  the  best  and  wisest  men  in  the  Catholic  Church 
have  consecrated  by  their  example. 

To  him  who  wishes  to  explore  the  ancient  history  of  Ireland,  its 
topography  is  singularly  instructive.  Many  of  its  valuable  records 
have  been  doomed  to  destruction,  but  there  is  a great  deal  of  im- 
portant information  written  on  its  soil.  Unlike  the  topography  of 
other  countries,  the  names  of  places  in  Ireland,  from  its  largest  to 
its  most  minute  denominations,  are  all  significant,  and  expressive 
of  some  natural  qualities  or  historical  recollections.  If  the  Irish 
language  were  to  perish  as  a living  language,  the  topography  of 
Ireland,  if  understood,  would  be  a lasting  monument  of  its  signifi- 
cance, its  copiousness,  its  flexibility,  and  its  force.  A vast  number 
of  its  names  is  traceable  to  the  influence  of  Christianity.  Such  are 
all  those  commencing  with  till , of  which  the  number  is  evidence 
how  thickly  its  churches  were  scattered  over  the  land.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  teampul  and  tearmuin,  but,  being  derived  from  the 
Latin  language,  they  are  more  rare  than  the  word  till,  a genuine 
Celtic  word.  The  words  commencing  with  lios  and  rath  are  sup- 
posed to  ascend  to  the  time  of  the  incursions  of  the  Danes  ; but 
whatever  be  the  period  of  their  introduction,  they  and  dun  are  ex- 
pressive of  military  operations.  Other  denominations  imply  a ter- 
ritory, either  integral  or  in  parts,  such  as  tir,  bailie , leath,  trian, 
ceathradh,  cuigadh,  etc.,  and  mean  the  country,  the  village,  half, 
third,  fourth,  or  fifth  of  such  a district.  It  is  from  cuigad,  or  a 
fifth  portion,  our  provinces  were  so  called ; and  though  now  but 
four  provinces  are  generally  named,  the  corresponding  word  in  Irish 
signifies  a fifth,  as  cuig  chuighaide  Eirean,  or  the  five  provinces  of 
Ireland.  Hence,  if  a stone  were  not  to  be  found  to  mark  the  ruins 


Most  Rev.  John  Mac  Hale,  D.D. 


683 


of  the  magnificence  of  Tara,  the  Irish  name  of  a province  will  re- 
main an  enduring  attestation  of  the  ancient  monarchy  of  Meath. 

The  name  of  rus , or  Eos,  so  frequently  characterizing  some  of 
our  Irish  townlands,  always  signifies  a peninsula  or  promontory, 
or,  for  a similar  reason,  an  inland  spot  surrounded  by  moor  or 
water.  The  words  commencing  with  mctgh,  or  Moy,  signify  exten- 
sive plains,  and  assume  the  appellation  of  cluan  when  comparatively 
retired.  The  highlands,  from  the  mountain  to  the  sloping  knoll, 
are  well  known  by  sliabh,  chnoc , tullagh,  or  Tully,  and  learg,  while 
glean,  lag,  called  in  English  Glyn  and  Lag,  denominate  the  low- 
lands and  the  valleys.  It  is  not  to  he  supposed  that  the  number- 
less lakes  and  streams  that  cover  the  plains  or  descend  from  its 
hills  had  not  a large  influence  in  giving  their  names  to  a great  por- 
tion of  the  country.  Accordingly  we  find  loch,  tobar,  abhain, 
seaclan,  forming  the  commencement  of  the  names  of  several  town- 
lands  and  villages.  The  qualities  by  which  these  several  names  are 
modified  are  as  various  as  the  properties  of  the  soil  and  the  tradi- 
tional records  of  each  locality. 

Tobarnavian  has,  like  other  ancient  names,  employed  and  divided 
skilful  etymologists  and  antiquarians.  Some  have  derived  the  name 
from  the  excellent  quality  of  its  waters,  not  inferior  to  the  juice  of 
the  grape,  whilst  others,  with  more  strict  regard  to  the  just  rules 
of  etymology,  as  well  as  the  truth  of  history,  have  traced  it  to  the 
old  legends  of  the  Fenian  Heroes.  Tobar  an  fhioin  would  be  its 
correct  name  according  to  the  first  derivation,  whereas  Tobar  na 
b-fian  is  its  exact  and  grammatical  appellation  as  connected  with 
the  historical  and  poetical  legends  of  the  followers  of  the  great 
leader  of  the  ancient  Irish  chivalry.  Its  situation,  as  well  as  the 
tales  connected  with  the  scenery  by  which  it  is  surrounded,  gives 
additional  force  to  this  etymology.  It  is  situated  at  the  base  of 
Hepliin,  the  second  among  all  the  mountains  of  Connaught  in  ele- 
vation, and  inferior  but  to  few  in  Ireland.  The  south  view  is 
bounded  by  a portion  of  the  Ox  Mountains,  stretching  from  the 
Atlantic,  in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre.  They  are  called  the 
Barna-na-gaoith  Mountains  from  a narrow  and  precipitous  defile 
where  the  storm  rules  supreme,  and  rendered  famous  by  the  pass- 
age of  the  French  in  1798,  on  their  way  to  Castlebar.8 9  Round  the 


8 As  exciting  events  take  a strong  hold  of  the  youthful  mind,  the  age  of  seven  years  at 
the  time— the  interval  between  1791  and  1798— enables  me  vividly  to  recollect  the  distress- 

ing incidents  of  that  period. 


684 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


base  of  this  circuitous  range  of  hills  is  seen,  as  if  to  sleep,  the 
peaceful  surface  of  the  beautiful  Lake  of  Lavalla,  bordering  on  the 
woods  of  Massbrook.  Directly  to  the  east,  the  large  Lake  of  Con 
stretches  from  the  Pontoon,  to  the  northwest  the  lofty  hill  of  Chnoc 
Nania  intercepting  the  view  of  its  surface,  and  again  revealing  to 
the  eye,  on  the  north  side  of  the  hill,  another  portion  of  the  same 
sheet  of  waters.  Beyond  the  extremity  of  the  lake  you  can  con- 
template some  of  the  most  cultivated  and  picturesque  portions  of 
Tyrawley,  stretching  along  in  the  distance  as  far  as  the  hill  of 
Lacken,  of  which  the  view  is  animated  by  a fanciful  tower  of  modern 
construction. 

Such  is  the  view  that  presents  itself  from  this  elevated  spot, 
forming  the  summit  level  of  the  district,  from  the  sea  to  the  Ox 
Mountains.  In  this  remote  district,  secluded  by  its  encircling 
woods,  hills,  and  lakes,  the  olden  legends  and  traditions  of  the 
land  were  preserved  with  a fond  and  religious  fidelity.  When  the 
other  provinces  of  Ireland  and  a large  portion  of  Connaught  were 
overrun  and  parcelled  out  among  strangers,  the  territories  of  Ty- 
rawley were  inherited  by  the  descendants  of  the  ancient  septs  until 
its  fair  fields  were  at  length  invaded  and  violated  by  the  ruthless 
followers  of  Cromwell.  For  its  long  immunity  from  the  scourge  of 
the  despoiler  it  paid  at  length  the  forfeit  in  the  increased  oppres- 
sion to  which  its  inhabitants  were  doomed  ; and  whilst  the  descend- 
ants of  the  ancient  settlers  were  mingled  in  a community  of  blood 
and  interest  with  those  of  the  Celtic  race  in  other  parts  of  Ireland, 
the  Catholics  of  Tyrawley,  like  those  of  Tipperary,  were  doomed  to 
be  treated  by  those  more  recent  taskmasters  as  aliens  in  country,  in 
language,  and  in  creed. 

The  retired  position  of  Glyn-Nephin  afforded  a secure  asylum  to 
the  songs  and  traditions  of  the  olden  times,  and  the  indignities  to 
which  the  inhabitants  were  subjected  by  the  Covenanters  who  were 
planted  among  them  served  but  to  endear  every  relic  of  story  or  of 
minstrelsy  which  time  had  transmitted.  Itwas  here  Bunting  10  col- 
lected some  of  the  most  tender  and  pathetic  of  those  ancient  airs  to 
which  Moore  has  since  associated  his  exquisite  poetry.  It  was  here, 
too,  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Con,11  that  Mr.  Hardiman  took  down 
some  of  the  sweetest  specimens  to  be  found  in  his  collection  of 
Irish  minstrelsy.  It  was  no  wonder.  The  name  of  Carolan,  who 

10  See  his  “Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,”  Index. 

11  See  Hardiman’s  “ Irish  Minstrelsy,”  vol.  i.,  page  341. 


Most  Rev.  John  Mac  Hale,  D.D. 


685 


frequented  the  district,  was  yet  familiar  with  the  older  natives  of 
the  valley  of  Nephin,  and  in  no  portion  of  Ireland  did  his  soul- 
inspiriting  airs  find  more  tuneful  voices  than  were  there  heard 
artlessly  pouring  them  forth  amidst  the  solitude  of  the  listening 
mountains. 

Of  the  legends  of  Ireland,  both  oral  and  written,  the  people 
were  not  less  retentive  than  of  the  songs  of  their  bards.  I knew 
myself  some  who,  though  they  could  not  at  all  read  English,  read 
compositions  in  the  Irish  language  with  great  fluency,  and  even  of 
those  who  were  not  instructed  to  read,  many  could  recite  the 
Ossianic  poems  with  amazing  accuracy.  While  Macpherson  was 
exhausting  his  ingenuity  in  breaking  up  those  ancient  poems  and 
constructing  an  elaborate  system  of  literary  fraud  out  of  their  frag- 
ments, there  were  thousands  in  Ireland,  and  especially  in  Glyn- 
Nephin,  who  possessed  those  ancient  Irish  treasures  of  Ossian  in 
all  their  genuine  integrity,  and  whose  depositions,  could  their  depo- 
sitions be  heard,  would  have  unveiled  the  huge  imposture.  There 
is  scarcely  a mountain,  or  rock,  or  river  in  Ireland  that  is  not  in 
some  way  associated  with  the  name  of  Fion  and  his  followers.  On 
the  highest  peak  of  Nephin  is  still  visible  an  immense  cairne  of 
large  and  loose  stones  called  “ Lead  Fionn”  or  Fion’s  monument. 
Some  fanciful  etymologists  are  disposed  to  trace  the  name  of 
Nephin,  or  Nefin,  to  the  chief  of  the  Fiana,  insisting  that  it  means 
Reamli-Fionn , as  Olympus  was  the  seat  of  the  pagan  divinities. 
But  though  the  monument  just  alluded  to  may  give  weight  to  this 
opinion,  the  authority  of  Duald  Mac  Firbis  is  opposed  to  them, 
Aemhthin  being,  according  to  this  learned  antiquarian,  its  pure 
and  primitive  orthography.  The  circumstance  of  Gol,  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  of  those  military  champions  belonging  to  this 
province,  may  well  account  for  their  intimate  connection  with  our 
scenery  ; and  as  the  Fiana  were  supposed  to  have  been  frequent 
and  familiar  visitors  in  those  regions,  it  is  no  wonder  that  their 
superior  quality  would  have  drawn  their  attention  to  the  waters 
of  this  fountain.  The  Latin  and  Irish  lines  with  which  I have 
prefaced  this  letter  are  inscribed  on  a stone  slab,  an  appropriate 
and  significant  ornament  of  this  ancient  fountain,  from  which  are 
continually  gushing  its  classic  or  legendary  waters. 

From  the  disastrous  period  of  the  wars  of  Cromwell  few  or  none 
of  the  Bishops  of  Killala,  to  the  time  of  my  two  immediate  prede- 
cessors, had  a permanent  residence  in  the  diocese.  Doctor  Waldron, 


686 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


my  lamented  predecessor  of  pious  memory,  and  Doctor  Bellew  filled 
up  near  the  last  half  century  of  that  dreary  interval. 13  The  notices 
of  the  lives  of  the  bishops  of  the  preceding  portion  are  hut  scanty — 
nay,  it  would  he  difficult  to  supply  some  considerable  chasms  with 
their  very  names.  This  has  been  a misfortune  not  peculiar  to  the 
diocese  of  Killala.  The  churches  of  Ireland  shared  in  the  same 
calamity.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  however,  that,  whilst  the  material 
edifices  which  they  erected  have  been  destroyed  or  effaced,  their 
names  are  written  in  the  more  valuable  records  of  the  Book  of  Life. 
Even  of  the  bishops  antecedent  to  that  period  the  catalogue  is  im- 
perfect. Duald  Mac  Firbis,  whom  I have  already  quoted,  has  pre- 
served the  names  of  seven  bishops  of  the  Mac  Celes,13  who  flourished 
between  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.  To  such  annalists  as 
the  Four  Masters  and  the  authors  of  the  “Book  of  Lecan,”  etc.,  we 
are  indebted  for  such  fragments  of  ecclesiastical  history  as  survived 
the  wreck  of  violence  and  of  time.  I indulged  a hope,  when  first  I 
went  to  the  Eternal  City,  to  be  able  to  trace  back  the  unbroken 
stem  of  our  episcopal  succession,  and,  through  it,  many  subordinate 
ecclesiastical  branches.  But  even  there  the  task  became  difficult,  if 
not  hopeless.  It  is  some  consolation  that  this  diocese  has  supplied 
some  of  those  who  have  been  most  successful  in  illustrating  the 
annals  of  Ireland.  The  “ Book  of  Lecan  ” is  prized  by  every  scholar 
as  one  of  the  most  valuable  of  our  records,  and  the  name  of  Mac 
Firbis  ranks  among  those  great  benefactors  who,  in  times  of  diffi- 
culty and  darkness,  cast  a gleam  of  splendor  over  the  declining 
literature  of  their  country. 

John,  Bishop  op  Killala. 


LETTER  TO  LORD  JOHN  RUSSELL. 

St.  Jarlath’s,  Tuam,  August  21, 1846. 

My  Lord  : The  brief  interval  that  has  elapsed  since  I found  it 
ihy  duty  to  address  your  Lordship  on  the  frightful  prospects  of  the 
potato  crop  has,  I am  sorry  to  say,  more  than  realized  our  worst 
and  most  desponding  anticipations.  The  failure — nay,  the  utter, 

12  The  names  of  their  immediate  predecessors  were,  Erwin,  Skerret,  Philips,  Mac  Don- 
nell, of  whom  the  last,  or  most  remote  in  the  series,  is  here  still  recollected  by  some  of 
the  old  and  patriarchal  natives. 

13  See  the  “ Hi  Fiana,”  one  of  the  last  volumes  published  by  the  Archaeological  Society. 
The  learned  translator,  Mr.  John  O’Donovan,  does  great  justice  to  the  memory  of  Duald 
Mac  Firbis,  who  earned  the  encomiums  of  O’Flagherty  and  Charles  O’Connor. 


Most  Rev.  John  Mac  Hale,  D.D. 


687 


the  general,  and  undeniable  destruction  of  that  crop,  the  only  sup- 
port of  millions  of  human  beings — is  now  a subject  of  irrefutable 
notoriety,  and  the  only  subject  of  doubt  or  speculation  is,  what 
may  be  the  short  period  within  which  the  celerity  of  the  potato-rot 
will  work  its  entire  annihilation.  This  is  a tremendous  crisis  to 
contemplate.  It  has  had  already  the  effect  of  unnerving  the 
courage  of  the  people.  Something  akin  to  a feeling  of  despair  has 
fallen  on  them,  and,  like  mariners  becalmed  in  the  midst  of  the 
ocean,  whose  provisions  are  gone,  whilst  they  are  many  days’  voyage 
from  any  shore,  they  look  forward  through  the  terrible  period  of 
an  entire  year  without  hope  from  the  ordinary  resources  of  an 
abundant  harvest.  It  is  a prospect  at  which  humanity  sickens  to 
see  the  people’s  hopes  thus  entirely  frustrated,  and  the  period  which 
generally  consoled  them  for  the  privations  of  the  preceding  sum- 
mer turned  into  a season  of  sorrow  and  despair. 

It  is,  no  doubt,  a chastisement  of  the  Almighty,  and  it  is  the 
duty  of  us  all  to  bow  in  submission  to  the  chastening  dispensations 
of  a just  God,  and  acknowledge  the  divine  power  by  which  we  are 
stricken.  Yet,  far  from  sinking  into  apathy,  we  are  all  bound  to 
redoubled  exertion,  and  our  guilt  will  be  only  aggravated  if  we  fail 
to  administer  relief  to  a perishing  nation.  I am  rejoiced  to  find 
that  the  report  of  the  late  Parliamentary  debate  regarding  the  ap- 
proaching famine  furnishes  some  faint  hope  to  the  people.  It  is, 
however,  but  a faint  hope,  for  if  the  measures  for  our  relief  were  to 
be  restricted  to  the  votes  already  passed,  they  would  prove  utterly 
powerless  in  averting  the  threatened  calamity.  I will  not  for  the 
present  dwell  on  the  delays  and  embarrassments  which  must  render 
a portion  of  the  projected  relief  utterly  unavailing.  I merely  con- 
tent myself  with  acknowledging  that  those  votes,  such  as  they  were, 
proved  the  awful  truth  of  the  approaching  famine  as  well  as  a cer- 
tain degree  of  sympathy  for  those  who  are  its  threatened  victims. 

But  allow  me  respectfully  to  impress  on  your  Lordship  that  hun- 
ger and  starvation  are  already  at  the  doors  of  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands, and  that  an  enemy  like  this  will  not  be  subdued  by  distant 
and  doubtful  measures  of  relief.  The  British  Empire  boasts,  and 
with  justice,  of  its  measureless  resources.  Now  is  an  opportunity 
of  exhibiting  as  well  the  extent  of  its  humanity  as  of  its  resources. 
And  what  is  the  available  sum  that  has  been  voted  by  the  muni- 
ficence of  Parliament  to  avert  the  starvation  of  millions  ? Fifty 
thousand  pounds  ! Ten  placemen  partition  between  them  a larger 


6S8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


portion  of  the  public  money.  Let  it  not  be  said  that  they  are  as 
valuable  in  the  scale  of  humanity,  or  even  of  policy,  as  three  mil- 
lions of  industrious  inhabitants.  Fifty  thousand  pounds  for  a 
starving  people  ! It  is  not  many  years  ago  since  four  times  the  sum 
was  squandered  on  the  pageant  of  a king’s  coronation.  Fifty  thou- 
sand pounds  ! It  is  still  fresh  in  our  memory  when  a few  persons 
were  allowed  twenty  times  that  amount — a million  of  money — from 
the  public  purse  to  sustain  an  artificial  status  in  society,  and  yet 
but  the  twentieth  portion  given  to  that  body  to  keep  up  their  rank 
is  to  be  doled  out  to  keep  multitudes  who  are  the  sinews  of  society 
from  perishing.  Your  Lordship  does  not  forget  when  twenty  mil- 
lions were  heaped  out  from  the  public  treasury  to  give  liberty  to 
the  negroes  of  the  West  Indies,  a liberty  which  your  political  op- 
ponents accuse  you  of  jeopardizing  by  your  recent  measures  regard- 
ing sugar.  And  are  the  lives  of  the  people  of  Ireland  so  much  de- 
preciated in  value  below  the  liberties  of  the  negro  Indians  that  but 
fifty  thousand  pounds — the  four- hundredth  part  of  the  sum  allotted 
to  the  redemption  of  the  former  from  slavery — is  to  be  given  for 
rescuing  the  latter  from  certain  death  ? One  hundred  thousand 
pounds  are  voted  for  infidel  colleges  condemned  by  the  bishops, 
priests,  and  people  of  Ireland ; and  while  a double  sum  is  wasted 
on  an  object  that  will  only  poison  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  sub- 
sidize apostate  professors  to  do  the  work,  will  half  the  sum  be 
deemed  sufficient  for  saving  an  entire  people  from  starvation  ? 

I have  not  time,  nor  have  I any  inclination — it  is  too  melancholy 
a topic — to  expose  the  heartlessness  of  the  sordid  and  unfeeling 
economists  who  complain  that  Irish  misery  is  to  be  relieved  out  of 
the  English  exchequer.  Yo ; we  only  demand  that  Irish  misery 
should  be  relieved  out  of  the  Irish  resources  that  are  profusely  and 
unfeelingly  squandered  in  England.  If  there  be  a real  union  be- 
tween England  and  Ireland,  it  should  have  the  reciprocal  conditions 
of  all  such  covenants — mutual  benefits  and  mutual  burdens.  We 
want,  then,  no  English  money.  We  want  but  a fair  share  of  the 
other  portion  of  our  produce,  I mean  the  wheaten  one,  with  which 
Ireland  teems  in  abundance.  Had  we  our  Parliament  at  this  mo- 
ment, it  is  certain  we  should  be  free  from  the  apprehensions  of  star- 
vation. It  would  infallibly  supply  us  with  plenty  out  of  an  Irish 
exchequer.  We  have,  then,  a right  to  demand,  on  the  score  of  the 
Union,  without  being  beholden  to  England,  that  support  in  our 
destitution  which  our  own  Parliament,  if  not  merged  in  that  of 


Most  Rev . John  Mac  Hale,  D.D. 


689 


Great  Britain,  would  not  fail  to  grant.  If,  then,  those  economists 
persist  in  a course  of  political  casuistry  as  wrong  in  principle  as  it 
is  inhuman  in  practice,  let  them,  even  now  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
vote  back  our  Parliament,  and  we  will  dispense  with  their  votes  of 
money.  There  is  no  evasion  from  either  alternative  ; the  lives  of 
millions  are  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  sordid  speculations  of  a few 
political  economists. 

I have  the  honor  to  be  your  obedient  servant, 

►J*  John,  Archbishop  of  Tuam. 


MRS.  J.  SADLIER. 


“ Among  Irish  ladies,  there  is  in  America  one  whom  all  true  Irishmen  delight 
to  honor.” — T.  D.  McGee. 

“A  lady  whose  name  is  a household  word  in  Catholic  families.” — “Popular 
History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  United  States.” 

MARY  A.  SADLIER  was  born  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  1820 
in  Cootehill,  a considerable  town  of  the  county  of  Cavan, 
Ireland,  situated  about  half  a mile  from  the  banks  of  the  silvery 
Erne,  where  that  river  divides  the  counties  of  Cavan  and  Monaghan. 
Her  father,  Francis  Madden,  was  widely  known  and  much  respected 
as  an  energetic  and  intelligent  trader,  whose  mercantile  transactions 
were  long  attended  with  marked  success  ; but  a series  of  losses  in  a 
time  of  severe  financial  depression  reduced  the  family  to  a state  of 
comparative  indigence,  and  the  husband  and  father  soon  sank  under 
the  pecuniary  difficulties  that  pressed  upon  him,  all  the  more  galling 
to  him  inasmuch  as  he  was  a man  of  the  strictest  integrity,  endowed 
with  the  highest  sense  of  honor,  and,  at  the  same  time,  with  keen 
susceptibility. 

In  August,  1844,  a few  weeks  after  Mr.  Madden’s  death,  his 
eldest  daughter,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  emigrated  to  Canada 
with  a brother  some  years  younger  than  herself.  In  Montreal  she 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  James  Sadlier,  the  junior  partner  of 
the  well-known  firm  of  E.  & J.  Sadlier  & Co.,  Catholic  publishers, 
and  in  November,  1846,  Miss  Mary  Anne  Madden  became  his  wife. 

James  Sadlier  was  then  the  manager  of  the  Montreal  branch  of 
the  business  of  the  firm,  and  in  that  city  he  and  his  wife  continued 
to  reside  till  May,  1860,  when,  with  their  children,  they  removed  to 
New  York.  In  September,  1869,  Mr.  James  Sadlier  died,  leaving 
his  widow  the  care  of  a large  family,  to  whom  she  has  since,  with 
virtuous  and  motherly  affection,  sedulously  devoted  herself,  gradually 
withdrawing,  as  far  as  the  duties  of  her  state  will  allow,  from 
general  society  into  the  quiet  shades  of  domestic  life. 

Mrs.  Sadlier  is  one  of  the  most  gifted,  industrious,  and  successful 
writers  of  this  nineteenth  century.  Mighty  has  been  her  pen  in  the 


Mrs.  J.  Sadlier. 


691 


cause  of  truth,  and  faith,  and  virtue.  She  was  no  more  than 
eighteen  years  of  age  when  she  began  her  long  literary  career  as  an 
occasional  contributor  to  La  Belle  Assembl'ee,  a London  magazine. 
In  Canada  she  contributed  both  before  and  after  her  marriage  to  the 
Literary  Garland,  issued  monthly  at  Montreal.  During  the  years 
intervening  between  1847  and  1874,  Mrs.  Sadlier  was  connected  in  one 
way  or  another  with  several  prominent  Catholic  journals,  especially 
the  New  York  Tablet,  New  York  Freeman's  Journal,  Boston  Pilot, 
and  Montreal  True  Witness. 

During  this  time,  and  simultaneously  with  her  labors  as  a Catho- 
lic journalist,  Mrs.  Sadlier  wrote  and  translated  from  the  French 
numerous  works  on  various  subjects,  most  of  them,  especially  the 
translations,  being  of  a religious  character. 

Her  original  works,  nearly  all  of  fiction,  form  a class  peculiar  to 
themselves,  having  each  a special  object  in  view,  bearing  on  the 
moral  and  religious  well-being  of  her  fellow-Catholics,  especially 
those  of  the  Irish  race,  to  which  it  is  this  gifted  and  virtuous  lady’s 
pride  to  belong  by  sympathy  as  well  as  by  blood.1 

In  the  dedication  of  his  “ History  of  Ireland  ” to  Mrs.  Sadlier,  the 
Hon.  Thomas  D’Arcy  McGee  truly  says : 

“ With  the  latest  chapter  in  point  of  time  of  our  history — the 
chapter  of  the  exodus — your  name  must  be  for  ever  associated.  No 
one  has  known  how  to  paint  to  the  new  age  and  the  New  World  the 
household  virtues,  the  religious  graces,  the  manly  and  womanly 
characteristics  of  this  ancient  people  like  you,  my  friend.  ” 

Of  “ The  Blakes  and  Flanagans,”  the  venerable  Dr.  de  Char- 
bonnel,  then  Bishop  of  Toronto,  said  “ that  it  was  written  with  a pen 
of  gold  ” ; and  from  the  pulpit,  the  same  noble  prelate  declared  that 
“he  hoped  to  see  the  book  circulated  by  the  hundred  thousand.” 
Indeed,  all  Mrs.  Sadlier’s  works  are  worthy  of  the  highest  praise. 
The  “ Confederate  Chieftains  ” is,  perhaps,  her  masterpiece.  It  is 
a vivid  picture  of  one  of  the  most  stirring  periods  in  Irish  history, 
and  exhibits  Mrs.  Sadlier  as  a writer  of  rich  imagination,  great 
power,  and  extensive  erudition.  She  is  the  author  of  over  fifty 
volumes,  original  and  translated.  The  following  are  the  dates  of 
publication  of  her  chief  original  works:  “Willy  Burke”  (about 
1850)  ; “Alice  Riordan”  (about  1852) ; “New  Lights;  or,  Life  in 
Galway”  (1853);  “The  Blakes  and  Flanagans”  (1855);  “The 

1 The  foregoing  sketch,  with  some  slight  alterations,  is  taken  from  our  “ Popular  His- 
tory of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  United  States.” 


692 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Confederate  Chieftains ” (1859);  “Confessions  of  an  Apostate” 
(1859) ; “Bessy  Conway”  (1861) ; “ Old  and  New  ; or,  Taste  versus 
Fashion”  (1861);  “The  Hermit  of  the  Rock”  (1863);  “Con 
O’Regan”  (1864);  “Old  House  by  the  Boyne”  (1865);  “'Aunt 
Honor’s  Keepsake”  (1866);  “The  Heiress  of  Kilorgan”  (1867); 
“MacCarthy  More”  (1868);  “Maureen  Dhu,  a Tale  of  the  Clad- 
dagh”  (1869). 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  WORKS  OF  MRS.  SADLIER. 
IRELAND  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

’Tis  night  in  far-off  Ireland,  the  land  I love  the  best, 

The  golden  sun  has  vanish’d  from  the  highest  mountain-crest. 

The  lady-moon  is  rising  o’er  hill  and  tower  and  town, 

And  the  stars,  like  peeping  angels,  from  heaven’s  dome  look  down. 

The  lone  isle  sleeps  in  beauty  beneath  the  mellow  ray, 

Her  lovely  features  fairer  far  than  in  the  blaze  of  day ; 

Yet  ’tis  not  on  the  beauty  of  wood  or  vale  or  stream 
That  mem’ry  dwells  the  fondest  in  yonder  silvery  beam. 

Those  scenes  of  beauty  change  not,  they  death  and  time  defy, 

We  see  them  as  our  fathers  saw  in  ages  long  gone  by ; 

The  valleys  are  as  smiling,  the  mountains  are  as  grand 
As  when  Milesius  landed  with  his  brave  Biscayan  band. 

Not  so  the  glorious  works  of  art  that  gem  the  island  o’er, 

From  far  Dunlure  on  Antrim’s  coast* to  Beara’s  classic  shore  ; 

From  old  Dungiven’s  abbey-walls2 3 *  5 to  Cashel’s  sacred  fane, 

From  Devenish  to  Clonmacnoise,  from  Arran  to  Loch  Lene.8 

The  moonbeam  rests  so  lovingly  on  wrecks  of  human  art, 

As  tho’  the  radiant  queen  of  night  throbbed  with  a human  heart ; 
She  spreads  her  mantle  o’er  them  thro’  the  watches  of  the  night, 
And  gilds  their  desolation  with  more  than  earthly  light 

2 Built  by  the  O’Kanes  in  the  year  1100. 

3 The  ancient  name  of  the  Lakes  of  Killamey.  Loch  Lene  in  the  Irish  tongue  means 

the  lake  of  learning,  no  less  than  three  abbeys  being  located  on  its  banks  ; of  these  Irre- 

lagh  was  quite  famous,  but  not  so  famous  as  Mucruss  on  the  Little  isle  of  Innisfallen. 


Mrs.  J.  Sadlicr. 


693 


And  the  cold  bright  stars  look  brighter  o’er  the  empire  of  decay, 
The  monuments  of  ages  gone  and  races  pass’d  away  ; 

The  walls  uprear’d  in  ancient  times  when  earth  was  in  her  prime, 
Those  stern  mementoes  of  the  past  and  trophies  of  old  Time. 

A mystic  scroll  is  spread  to-night  beneath  that  Irish  sky, 

A record  of  the  ages  as  they  roll’d  in  grandeur  by  ; 

The  weird  magician,  Time,  hath  traced  in  earth  and  wood  and 
stone 

The  prints  of  rites  and  races  on  earth  no  longer  known. 

The  barrow  and  the  cairn,  the  lone  sepulchral  heap, 

Where  the  Firbolg  and  the  Danaan  in  pagan  darkness  sleep, 

The  cromleach  where  the  Druid  offer’d  sacrifice  of  old. 

And  the  spectral  pillar-tower,  lone  watcher  of  the  wold  ! 

The  bawn  of  patriarchal  times,  the  keep  of  after  days. 

And  the  stately  battlemented  pile  which  artists  love  to  praise, 
Lismore's  proud  halls,  and  Trim’s  dark  towers,  and  the  Castle  by 
the  Nore,4 

Where  belted  earl  and  stately  chief  and  proud  dame  dwelt  of  yore. 

The  castles  of  our  chieftains  on  every  beetling  steep  ; 

The  abbeys  which  they  founded  and  beneath  whose  walls  they  sleep  ; 
The  temples  which  they  raised  to  God,  where  erst  they  knelt  and 
pray’d 

When  buckling  on  their  armor  to  draw  the  vengeful  blade 

Speak  softly  in  the  moonlight  of  bloody  feuds  and  scars, 

Where  knight  and  noble  rest  in  peace  beneath  those  glittering 
stars — 

Fitzgeralds  and  McCarthys,  O’Neills,  and  Butlers,  too, 

All  sleep  far  down  in  Irish  earth  beneath  yon  heaven  of  blue. 

If  fair  Mucruss  and  Holy  Cross  and  Cashel  of  the  Kings 
Were  built  by  Irish  princes  as  monumental  things, 

The  Normans  left  us  Mellifont,  Athenry,  Adare, 

Youghal  and  Howth  and  many  a fane  as  classic  and  as  fair. 


4 Kilkenny  Castle,  the  principal  residence  of  the  Marquis  of  Ormond. 


694 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


But  far  in  Western  Ireland,  a region  famed  in  song, 

One  lonely  pile  arrests  the  eye — the  royal  walls  of  Cong; 

There  at  this  solemn  midnight  hour  a spirit  sits  and  weeps 
Where  Roderick,  last  of  Irish  kings,  in  dull  oblivion  sleeps. 

0 Isle  of  Fate  ! 0 storied  isle  ! 0 isle  of  ancient  fame  ! 

Old  ocean  wears  no  nobler  gaud,  earth  hath  no  nobler  name  ; 
Thy  mournful  beauty,  ever  young,  still  wakes  the  poet’s  dream, 
Thou  fairest  isle  that  gems  the  wave  or  woos  the  midnight  beam  ! 

New  York,  December,  1861. 


HOME  MEMORIES. 

Wheh  the  sunshine  is  lost  in  the  mists  of  the  gloaming. 

And  night-shadows  darken  on  mountain  and  lea, 

Then  the  lone  heart  takes  wings  and  away  it  goes  roaming 
To  regions  far  over  the  billowy  sea. 

The  present  is  lost,  and  the  past  is  before  me 
All  vivid  and  bright  in  the  radiance  of  morn, 

And  fancy  brings  back  the  soft  spell  that  hung  o’er  me 
When  youth’s  brilliant  hopes  of  life’s  freshness  were  born. 

In  that  hour  I am  back  where  my  gay  childhood  fleeted, 

When  life’s  cares  and  life’s  sorrows  were  scarce  seen  in  dreams. 
When  hope’s  dulcet  tones,  by  the  echoes  repeated, 

Illumed  passing  hours  in  fancy’s  bright  beams. 

The  scenes  that  I love  and  the  friends  fondly  cherish’d 
Arise  in  their  warm  hues  to  gladden  my  sight ; 

The  scenes  that  are  far  and  the  friends  that  have  perish’d 
Are  near  and  around  me  all  life-like  and  bright. 

The  blue  changeful  sky  of  dear  Erin  is  o’er  me. 

The  green  hills  of  Cavan  rise  fair  on  my  view. 

The  Erne  is  winding  in  brightness  before  me, 

And  Cootehill’s  “ shady  arbors  ” their  verdure  renew. 

The  hills  and  the  dales  famed  in  song  and  in  story, 

Where  Breffny’s  proud  banner  was  flung  to  the  gale. 

Where  O’Reilly’s  bold  borderers  won  wreaths  of  glory 
In  guarding  the  North  from  the  raids  of  the  Pale. 


Mrs.  J.  Sadlier. 


695 


The  rath  where  the  fairies  kept  house  in  all  weather, 
The  ring  where  they  danced  in  the  yellow  moon’s  ray, 
The  lone  bush  on  the  hill-side  among  the  green  heather, 
By  “fairy-folk  ” guarded  by  night  and  by  day. 

The  deep  hazel  woods  where  shillelaghs  grew  strongest, 
(To  teach  “the  boys”  logic  at  market  and  fair,) 
Where  the  lark  and  the  linnet  sang  loudest  and  longest, 
And  the  cuckoo’s  blithe  solo  rang  clear  thro’  the  air. 

The  chapel 6 I see  where  my  childhood  was  nourished 
I11  the  faith  of  my  fathers,  the  old  and  the  true, 
Where  religion  was  houor’d  and  piety  flourished, 

Where  virtues  were  many  and  vices  were  few  ; 

And  kneeling  around  me  are  friends,  the  true-hearted. 
And  faces  familiar,  though  now  but  a dream, 

For  many  among  them  have  long  since  departed, 

To  dwell  in  the  light  of  eternity’s  beam. 

0 visions  of  home  ! why  so  fair  and  so  fleeting — 

Why  break  like  the  stars  on  the  darkness  of  night. 
Then  fly  like  the  mist  from  the  red  dawn  retreating, 
And  leave  the  dull  day-life  no  beam  of  your  light  ? 
The  vision  is  gone — not  a trace  is  remaining — 

The  stern  voice  of  duty  is  heard  at  the  door. 

The  real  objects  to  the  unreal  chaining 
The  spirit  whose  wing  must  soar  upward  no  more. 

New  York,  November  27,  1861. 


SCENE  IN'  A GALWAY  SCHOOL-ROOM. 

[From  “ New  Lights  ; or,  Life  in  Galway.”] 

Just  at  this  moment  the  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  the  school- 
house,  and  out  came  the  long,  thin  visage  of  Jenkinson  at  the  door, 
then  his  whole  gaunt  frame  sidled  out  after  it,  and  with  many  a 
bow  and  many  a grave  smile  he  welcomed  his  distinguished  visitors. 
He  was  stepping  forward  to  offer  his  hand  to  Eleanor,  but  Sir  James 
sprang  lightly  from  his  horse,  and  saying  “ Excuse  me,  sir,”  he 

5 Some  of  our  readers  may  not  be  aware  that,  in  the  North  of  Ireland  (especially)  the 
word  church  is  only  applied  to  the  places  of  worship  appertaining  to  the  “ church  (for- 
merly) by  law  established.” 


696 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


gracefully  assisted  tlie  ladies  to  alight.  Jenkinson  was  half  inclined 
to  resent  the  stranger’s  interference,  but  when  he  cast  a cursory 
glance  over  his  tall,  commanding  figure,  and  marked  the  dignity  of 
his  demeanor,  he  shrank  back  into  himself,  muttering,  “ Second 
thoughts  are  best.” 

“ Will  you  he  good  enough  to  lead  the  way  into  your  school-room, 
Mr.  Jenkinson  ?”  said  Mrs.  Ousely.  “Of  course,  you  are  prepared 
to  admit  us  ? ” 

“Oh  ! certainly,  ma’am,  certainly  ; will  you  condescend  to  walk 
this  way  ? ” 

“So  this  is  the  potentate  who  holds  dominion  here  ?”  said  the 
baronet  to  Eleanor  in  a low  voice  as  they  walked  in  side  by  side. 

“Yea,  verily,  this  is  the  righteous,  and  evangelical,  and  Popery- 
hating,  and  Bible-loving  instructor  of  youth,  placed  here  as  a light 
amid  darkness,”  said  Eleanor,  imitating  Jenkinson’s  own  prolix 
verbiage.  “ You  stare,”  she  added,  laughingly,  “but  you  will  soon 
cease  to  wonder  at  the  superfluity  of  words  wherewith  I do  eulogize 
our  excellent  pedagogue.  Be  silent  now,  good  sir,  that  you  may 
hear,  for  of  a surety  Jenkinson  is  about  to  hold  forth.” 

“Mr.  Dalton,”  said  he  to  his  usher,  a pale,  efleminate-looking 
young  man — “ Mr.  Dalton,  the  boys  have  not  yet  recited  their  Scrip- 
ture lesson  ? ” 

“ No,  sir  ; they  are  just  preparing  it.” 

“ Very  good,  Mr.  Dalton  ; let  us  have  it  now.  Ladies,  will  you 
condescend  to  sit  down  ? Sir,”  to  Sir  James,  “ will  you  he  pleased 
to  take  a seat  ? ” 

The  visitors  being  duly  settled  in  their  respective  places,  the 
master  took  his  station  near  Mrs.  Ousely,  and  the  pale-faced  usher 
stepped  up  on  a sort  of  dais  and  commanded  the  boys  to  close  their 
books.  The  order  was  instantly  obeyed,  some  of  the  poor,  starved- 
looking  urchins  taking  a last  peep  before  they  closed  their  Testa- 
ments. 

“Now,  commence,”  said  Dalton.  “ The  fourteenth  chapter  and 
first  verse  of  John.  Peter  O’Malley,  you  say  the  first  verse.” 

Peter  did  say  his  verse,  and  the  others  followed  in  turn,  until  the 
whole  of  that  mysterious  chapter  was  said,  some  few  of  the  boys 
making  sad  work  of  it,  but  in  general  they  said  their  verses  cor- 
rectly. When  the  lesson  was  ended,  Jenkinson  turned  to  his  visitors 
with  the  air  of  a man  who  expected  a compliment.  Mrs.  Ousely 
was  delighted,  and  told  Mr.  Jenkinson  that  he  was  doing  more  to 


Mrs.  J.  Sad  Her.  697 

overthrow  Popery  than  the  whole  Bible  Society  and  Tract  Society 
put  together. 

“You  are  very  good  to  say  so,  Mrs.  Ousely,”  said  Jenkinson, 
putting  on  a very  modest  air.  “ What  do  you  think,  sir  ? I am 
at  a loss,  ma’am,  for  this  gentleman’s  name.” 

“Sir  James  Trelawney.” 

Jenkinson  bowed  very  low. 

“ I hope  you  are  pleased  with  the  boys,  Sir  James  ?” 

“ They  have  said  their  lesson  well,”  replied  the  baronet,  some- 
what drily. 

“ Oh  ! but  you  must  hear  them  examined  in  order  to  judge  of  the 
progress  they  have  made.  Lawrence  O’Sullivan.” 

“ Well,  sir,”  said  a little  chubby-faced  boy,  about  eight  years  old, 
as  he  raised  himself  to  a standing  posture. 

“ What  is  Popery,  Larry  ? ” 

“Popery,  sir  ?”  Larry  scratched  his  head,  and  kept  looking  at 
the  boy  next  him,  who  said  something  in  a low  voice. 

“ Popery’s  the  great  delu — ” — another  look  at  his  neighbor — “ the 
great  delusion,  sir  ! ” 

Larry  looked  much  relieved  when  the  last  syllable  was  out. 

“Very  well  answered,”  said  Jenkinson.  “Now,  tell  us  what  is 
the  great  delusion — you,  Terence  Landrigan  ? ” 

“ It’s  Popery,  sir  !”  Eleanor  and  the  baronet  exchanged  smiles. 
“Very  good,  indeed.  Now,  Terence,  when  you’ve  done  so  well, 
just  tell  us  who  is  Antichrist ! ” 

“ The  pope,  sir  ! ” 

“ Eight  again  ! and  can  you  tell  me  who  was  Luther  ? ” 

“Luther,  sir  ? Luther  was — ” Terence’s  memory  was  evidently 
at  fault. 

“ Go  on,  you  blockhead  ; who  was  Luther  ? ” 

“ The — the — the  man  of  sin,  sir  ! ” 

“Sit  down,  sir!”  cried  Jenkinson,  angrily.  “That’s  the  pope 
you  mean.”  Eleanor  pretended  to  use  her  handkerchief,  and  Sir 
James  maliciously  said  to  Mrs.  Ousely  : “ What  a smart  lad  he  is  ! 
wonderfully  wise  for  his  age  ! ” 

“Miles  O’ Callaghan,  stand  up  there.”  Miles  was  a tall,  thin 
lad  of  some  ten  or  twelve  years  old.  “What  was  the  Inquisition, 
Miles?” 

“ A place  where  good  men  and  women  were  tortured  and  put  to 
death  for  their  religion.” 


6g8 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


“ Very  good  indeed,  Miles.  And  who  were  these  good  people  ?” 
“Protestants,  sir.” 

“ Many  of  them  Jews,”  said  Eleanor  in  a low  voice  to  Sir  James, 
who  nodded  assent. 

f “Right,  Miles,  right.  And  who  put  them  to  death  and  burned 
them  up  ? ” 

“Priests  and  monks,  sir.” 

“Right  again,  Miles.  Well,  now  can  you  tell  me  what  is 
confession  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir!  it  is  an  humble  accusation  of  one’s  self — ” began 
Miles. 

“ What  are  you  saying,  you  stupid  fellow  ? ” 

“ Why,  that’s  what’s  in  the  catechism,  sir  ! ” 

“ Yes,  in  the  priest’s  catechism,”  said  Jenkinson ; then,  raising 
his  voice  higher,  “ can’t  you  tell  me  what  confession  is  ?” 

“ Why,  sir,  I was  tellin’  you,  an’  you  wouldn’t  let  me.” 

“ Sit  down.  John  McSweeny  ! ” 

“Sir!” 

“ Who  was  Queen  Elizabeth  ?” 

“ Ould  Harry’s  daughter,  sir.” 

“ Henry  the  Eighth,  you  mean,”  said  Jenkinson  sternly. 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“ What  did  she  do,  John  ? ” 

“ She  ripped  open  the  priests  and  cut  the  heads  off  o’  them,  sir, 
an’  hunted  them  out  o’  the  country,  sir.” 

“ Hush,  John  !”  said  Dalton  eagerly  ; “ that’s  not  the  answer, 
you’re  wrong.” 

“ Why,  that’s  what  I heard  my  father  readin’  out  of  a book  about 
her,”  said  John  boldly. 

“ Put  him  down  to  the  foot !”  cried  Jenkinson,  his  face  purple 
with  rage.  “ It  is  a hard  and  a never-ending  and  an  arduous 
task,”  he  added,  turning  to  the  visitors,  “ to  get  these  Romish  chil- 
dren to  learn  anything.” 

“ I do  not  at  all  doubt  it,”  replied  Eleanor,  repressing  a smile. 

“ Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  the  boys  a few  questions,  Mr.  Jenkin- 
son ? ” said  Sir  James. 

“ Certainly,  sir,”  returned  the  schoolmaster,  though  he  and  his 
subordinate  exchanged  looks  that  showed  their  minds  ill  at  ease. 
“ Stand  up  all  of  you,  children  !” 

The  baronet  cast  a searching  glance  over  the  long  lines  of  anxious 


Mrs.  y.  Sad  Her. 


699 


little  faces  before  lie  spoke,  and  then,  selecting  those  who  seemed 
most  intelligent,  he  put  a few  leading  questions  on  the  great  truths 
of  religion.  Alas  ! lie  could  get  no  satisfactory  answer,  except  now 
and  then  when  memory  brought  back  to  some  of  the  older  boys  the 
almost  forgotten  teaching  of  the  priest.  Thus  Sir  James  had  asked 
several  boys  the  question,  “ For  what  end  were  we  created  ?”  and 
when,  at  last,  the  answer  came,  “ To  know,  love,  and  serve  God, 
and  to  be  happy  with  him  for  ever,”  the  boy  concluded  with, 
“ That’s  what  our  own  catechism  says,  sir.” 

“And  it  says  right,  my  boy,”  said  Sir  James,  patting  him  on 
the  head.  “That  will  do,  Mr.  Jenkinson;  we  are  but  trespassing 
on  your  time.” 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BEHBURB,  1646.® 

[From  “The  Confederate  Chieftains.”] 

As  Owen  Roe  O’Neill  rode  slowly  along  the  line,  he  was  joined  by 
Bishop  McMahon,  who  had  been  surveying  the  ground  and  the 
different  arrangements  with  the  eye  of  a veteran  soldier.  “ Owen,’*1 
said  he,  “ our  position  here  is  every  way  admirable,  but  how  shall 
we  manage  the  sun  yonder,  shining  full  in  our  eyes  ? ” 

“ I have  thought  of  that,  my  Lord,”  said  the  general  with  an 
anxious  glance  at  the  too  brilliant  luminary  ; “ would  the  enemy 
but  keep  quiet  for  a few  hours,  all  were  well ; but  an  they  will  at- 
tack us,  we  must  e’en  keep  them  in  play  till  the  sun  begins  to  de- 
scend. How  now,  Rory  ? ” He  was  passing  the  Fermanagh  men  at 
the  moment,  and  the  young  chief  stepped  forward,  indicating  by  a 
sign  that  he  wished  to  speak. 

“ I fear  for  my  poor  uncle,”  said  Rory;  “he  hath  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  is  to  die  this  day,  but  not  till  he  hath  worked  out  some 
conceit  of  his  own,  the  which  I take  to  be  so  perilous  that  it  may 
well  end  as  he  forebodes.  Could  you  not  send  him  to  keep  guard 
in  the  wood  yonder  ? ” 

“ An  he  did,  too,”  said  Lorcan  at  his  elbow,  “ I would  not  go. 
Others  can  keep  guard  in  the  wood  as  well  as  I,  and  I might  there- 

6 The  Irish  in  this  battle  numbered  5,000  infantry  and  500  cavalry,  and  were  command- 
ed by  the  celebrated  General  Owen  Roe  O Neill.  The  Scotch  and  English,  commanded 
by  General  Monroe,  numbered  7,000  infantry  and  800  cavalry.— See  MacGeoghegan’s 
“History  of  Ireland.” 


/OO  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland : 

by  lose  my  chance  of  revenge.  For  shame,  Rory,  plotting  against 
your  old  uncle  ! ” 

“ But,  uncle,  you  do  not  know — ” 

“ Lorcan,  it  were  a post  of  honor,  an’  you  knew  but  all.” 

“ Small  thanks  to  either  of  you,”  said  the  old  man  snappishly  ; 
“ I know  enough  to  take  care  of  my  own  honor.  In  the  van  I’ll  be, 
I tell  you  that ; it  wasn’t  to  hide  myself  in  the  wood  that  I got  the 
sight  I did  this  morning.” 

“ Steady,  men,  steady  ! ” cried  Owen  O’Neill,  “ they  are  advancing 
rapidly.  Keep  your  ground  ; obey  your  officers,  they  know  my  plans.” 
“ The  cavalry  ! the  cavalry  ! oh  ! the  hell-hounds,  a warm  wel- 
come to  them  ! ” 

On  they  went,  Lord  Ardes  at  their  head,  their  terrible  claymores 
flashing  in  the  sun.  Heaven  help  the  Irish  kern,  with  only  their 
barradlis  and  glib-locks  to  protect  their  heads  ! Yet  firm  as  a rock 
they  stand,  with  their  pikes  and  bayonets  firmly  clasped,  prepared 
to  resist  the  shock.  But  on  and  still  on  they  come,  Monroe’s  bloody 
troopers.  Hurrah  ! midway  on  their  course  they  are  greeted  by  a 
scathing  fire  from  the  bushes  on  either  side  ; they  reel ; they  attempt 
to  rally ; Lord  Ardes  waves  his  sabre  and  urges  them  on  ; thick 
and  fast  comes  the  deadly  volley  from  the  brushwood  ; down  go  the 
Scots  one  after  one,  man  and  horse  rolling  over  down  the  hill-side. 
A panic  seized  the  troopers,  and  their  officers  losing  all  command  of 
them,  they  hastily  made  their  retreat  to  the  sheltering  columns  of 
the  army.  Loud  and  long  was  the  laugh  that  pealed  after  them, 
and  Owen  Roe,  riding  once  more  to  the  front,  cried  out : 

“ Bravely  done,  my  faithful  Rapparees  ! I knew  it  was  in  you  !” 
“Methinks  Lord  Ardes  will  scarcely  try  it  again,  Owen,”  said 
Phelim,  coming  forward  at  a gallop.  “ Who  may  we  thank  for 
that  ?” 

“ Captain  Donogh  and  his  brave  comrades,”  said  Owen,  “ they  are 
the  boys  for  the  scrogs  and  bushes  ! But  back — back,  Phelim  ; as  I 
live  they’re  opening  a cannonade  ! Heavens  ! what  a peal  ! Spare, 
0 Lord  ! spare  our  brave  fellows  ! Ha  ! our  Lady  shields  us  well.” 
Again  the  shout  of  mirthful  mockery  burst  from  the  Irish  ranks 
as  shot  after  shot  boomed  in  quick  succession  from  the  enemy’s 
guns  without^©  much  as  harming  a single  man.7 


7 Rinuccini  and  other  good  authorities  state  that  in  this  first  cannonade  of  the  Scotch 
but  one  man  of  the  Irish  was  slain,  owing  to  the  admirable  disposition  of  the  army  by 
the  skill  and  foresight  of  Owen  Roe. 


Mrs.  J.  Sadlier. 


701 


44  Oh  ! the  darling  were  you,  Owen  Roe!”  44  The  Lord  be 
praised  ! isn’t  he  the  wonderful  man  ? ” 44  See  that,  now  ! ” 

Amid  these  exulting  shouts  and  cries  of  admiration,  and  the  dull 
roar  of  the  heavy  cannonade,  a cry  of  anguish  was  heard  so  loud 
and  shrill  and  piercing  that  every  eye  was  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  altar  whence  the  sound  appeared  to  proceed.  Few  could 
see  what  was  going  on  there,  but  those  that  did  found  it  hard  to 
keep  their  places  in  the  ranks  in  obedience  to  the  stern  voice  of 
the  general  calling  out  at  the  moment : 

44  Stir  not  a man  of  you,  on  pain  of  death  ! ” 

But  the  cry  went  round,  “Poor  Malachy  na  Soggarth  !”  and 
soon  it  reached  the  McMahons,  and  the  bishop  himself  was  quickly 
on  his  knees  beside  the  bleeding  body  of  his  humble  friend,  for 
Malachy  indeed  it  was.  The  poor  fellow,  in  making  some  new 
arrangement  about  the  altar  preparatory  to  the  grand  celebration  of 
thanksgiving  to  which  he  looked  forward,  had  incautiously  ascend- 
ed the  steps,  and,  thus  exposed,  became  a mark  for  some  deadly 
shot,  the  Puritans,  doubtless,  taking  him  for  a priest.  Fitting 
death  surely  for  Malachy  na  Soggarth  ! 

Judith  and  Emmeline  were  already  on  the  spot,  supporting  the 
inanimate  form  between  them  and  endeavoring  to  stanch  the  blood 
that  flowed  profusely  from  the  breast. 

44  My  poor,  poor  Malachy  !”  said  the  bishop  in  a choking  voice 
as  he  leaned  over  him;  44 is  there  life  in  him,  think  you  ?”  Lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  poor  fellow’s  heart,  he  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully. 44  Alas  ! alas  ! Malachy,”  he  murmured,  while  the  tears 
streamed  from  his  eyes,  44  it  will  never  beat  again  ! God  rest  your 
soul  in  peace  ! Let  us  lay  him  here  on  the  steps,  my  daughters, 
till  we  see  how  the  battle  goes.  Your  lives  are  not  safe  here,  and 
I must  away  where  duty  calls.” 

44  But  can  we  do  nothing  for  him , my  lord  ?”  said  Judith  anx- 
iously. 

44  Nothing,  nothing  ! my  poor  Malachy  is  beyond  mortal 
succor  1 ” 

44  For  heaven’s  sake,  Judith,  let  us  go!”  said  the  more  timid 
Emmeline,  shrinking  with  terror  as  a cannon-ball  raked  up  the 
ground  within  a few  feet  and  went  bounding  away  towards  the 
wood. 

44 She  is  right,”  said  the  bishop;  44  haste  away,  I implore — I 
command  you ! ” and  then  tenderly  he  laid  the  body  of  his  late 


702 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


sacristan  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  altar,  saying : “ Rest  yon  there, 
Malachy,  till  I return,  if  return  I do  or  may.” 

By  this  time  Angus  and  some  others  of  the  Rapparees  were 
hurrying  the  ladies  back  to  the  wood,  and  seeing  Malachy’s  body, 
they  would  have  taken  it  too,  but  hearing  that  the  bishop  had 
placed  it  where  it  was,  they  reluctantly  left  it  behind. 

“ Poor  Malachy  na  Soggarth  ! are  you  the  first  ? ” sighed  Angus. 
“God  knows  who  will  be  the  last;  you’ll  be  well  revenged,  any- 
how, before  night  ! ” 

Back  to  the  post  of  danger  flew  the  bishop,  and  he  found  the 
Clan  McMahon  busily  engaged  in  a skirmish  with  the  enemy,  whilst 
Owen  Roe  himself  and  young  Rory  Maguire  were  charging  with 
well-feigned  impetuosity ; indeed,  all  along  the  line  the  Irish  forces 
were  more  or  less  in  action,  now  advancing,  now  retiring,  yet  still 
maintaining  their  ground  with  all  the  disadvantages  of  a strong 
sun  shining  full  in  their  faces,  and  the  wind  blowing  the  smoke  of 
the  Scottish  guns  right  against  them.  Still,  they  had  the  counter 
advantage  of  position,  posted  as  they  were  between  two  hills  with 
the  wood  on  their  rear,  whereas  the  Puritans  were  hemmed  in  be- 
tween the  river  and  a wide-spreading  bog.  Little  recked  they,  in 
their  pride,  that  the  saffron-coated  kern  held  the  hill-sides  above 
them  ; were  they  not  delivered  unto  them  ? yea,  even  the  elements 
lent  their  aid  against  them,  and  the  sun  himself  struck  them,  as  it 
were,  with  blindness.  Verily,  God’s  judgments  were  upon  those  idol- 
aters, and  their  strength  must  wither  like  grass  before  the  wrathful 
eyes  of  the  elect. 

With  this  impression  on  their  minds,  the  Puritan  generals  made 
charge  after  charge  on  the  Irish  columns,  now  with  horse,  now 
with  foot,  and  again  with  both.  Somehow  the  “ idolaters  ” were 
not  quite  so  easily  overcome  as  they  in  their  fanatical  faith  had  be- 
lieved. It  is  true  they  seemed  to  fight  rather  shy,  as  though  fear- 
ing to  come  in  too  close  contact  with  the  swords  of  the  righteous, 
but  with  the  agility  of  mountain-goats  and  the  cunning  of  foxes 
they  managed  to  elude  the  furious  onslaught  of  the  Puritans. 
Truly  was  Owen  Roe  styled  the  Fabius  of  his  country,  for  such 
generalship  has  rarely  been  displayed  in  any  age,  such  consummate 
skill  and  prudence,  as  the  field  of  Benburb  witnessed  that  day. 

It  was  a strange  and  curious  sight  to  see  the  way  in  which  Owen 
kept  Monroe  and  his  legions  in  play  for  full  four  hours  on  the 
bright  June  day,  until  the  patience  of  his  own  people  was  all  but 


Mrs.  J.  Sadlier. 


703 


worn  out,  and  the  Scotch,  who  had  been  fighting  with  all  their 
might,  well-nigh  exhausted  and  frenzied  with  disappointment. 

Monroe’s  shrill  voice  was  heard  full  often  urging  on  his  officers, 
and  O’Neill’s  made,  as  it  were,  a mocking  echo.  It  was  “Cun- 
ningham forward  on  the  right,”  “ McMahon  to  the  front,”  “ Hamil- 
ton advance,”  “ O’Reilly  forward.” 

Much  grumbling  was  heard  amongst  the  O’Rourkes  on  finding 
that  the  O’Reillys,  not  they,  were  in  front  of  the  Hamiltons,  and 
Sir  Phelim  O’Neill  could  hardly  restrain  his  indignation  that  he 
was  left  out  of  the  count  and  reduced  to  a state  of  inactivity,  which 
he  deemed  a grievous  wrong.  Owen  Roe  smiled  as  he  heard  these 
complaints,  and  told  them  all  to  have  patience.  “Wait  till  you 
can  see  them,”  said  he,  “and  then,  men  of  Erin,  you  may,  per- 
chance, have  your  way.” 

It  was  fortunate  that  the  army  had  such  boundless  confidence  in 
the  wisdom  of  its  general,  for  there  lived  not  the  man  on  Irish 
ground,  save  Owen  himself,  that  could  have  kept  the  clans  back  so 
long,  and  to  rush  headlong  on  the  Scotch,  with  the  dazzling  sun 
and  the  drifting  smoke  striking  full  upon  them,  would  have  been 
certain  destruction. 

Old  Lorcan  Maguire  was  on  thorns.  Although  perfectly  compre- 
hending the  cause  of  Owen’s  holding  back,  he  still  could  not  re- 
strain his  impatience,  and  many  an  angry  glance  he  gave  through 
his  closed  eyelids  at  the  provokingly  bright  sun  that  would  not  let 
him  see  what  most  he  wished  to  see. 

“Rory,”  said  he  at  last  to  his  nephew,  “your  eyes  are  younger 
and  stronger  than  mine,  can  you  tell  me  whereabouts  Blayney  is  ; 
they  say  he’s  with  the  cavalry.” 

“ Why,  to  be  sure,  uncle  ! there  he  is  with  his  troop  on  the  left 
flank,  close  by  Hamilton’s  dragoons.  I have  my  eye  on  him,  never 
fear.” 

“ That’s  well,  my  boy,  that’s  well ; God  bless  you,  Rory ! ” A 
ball  whizzed  past  the  old  man’s  ear  at  the  moment,  but  so  wrapped 
was  he  in  his  own  thoughts  that  he  heeded  it  not,  although  it  drew 
from  his  nephew  an  exclamation  of  alarm.  A very  short  time  after 
that  a stir  was  perceptible  amongst  the  Irish.  The  sun  was  at 
length  behind  them,  and  the  wind  suddenly  changing,  the  smoke  of 
all  the  artillery  was  blown  in  the  faces  of  the  Scotch,  stunning  them 
with  the  effect  of  a hard  blow. 

By  some  rapid  evolutions,  made  at  the  moment  by  the  orders  of 


7 04 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Owen  Roe,  Hamilton  of  Leitrim  found  himself  faced  by  his  neigh- 
bors, the  O'Rourkes,  amongst  whom  were  conspicuous  the  square- 
built,  athletic  figure  of  Manus,  and  the  stately  form  of  his  chief. 
Blayney  was  likewise  confronted  by  his  old  acquaintances,  the  Mc- 
Mahons of  Uriel,  headed  by  their  own  chief,  whilst  Sir  Robert 
Stewart  and  his  bloody  troopers  stood  face  to  face  with  the  stern 
O’Kanes  of  the  mountains.  All  these  changes  were  effected  with 
the  quickness  almost  of  thought,  and  then  Owen  Roe,  surveying 
with  that  piercing  eye  of  his  the  confusion  prevailing  amongst  the 
Scotch,  cast  another  glance  along  his  own  line  to  see  that  all  was  to 
his  liking.  He  smiled,  and  murmured  softly  to  himself  : “ How  may 
Christ  and  his  Blessed  Mother  be  our  stay  ! ” 

Ay  ! the  moment  is  come  at  last ; the  Scotch  are  confused  and  be- 
wildered; they  cannot  fight,  it  would  seem,  as  the  Irish  did,  through 
sun  and  smoke.  Their  generals  see  the  danger,  they  see  the  ominous 
movements  going  on  amongst  the  Confederates,  they  use  every  ef- 
fort to  restore  order  in  their  own  ranks,  and  in  part  they  succeed. 
With  oaths  and  curses  Hamilton  forces  his  men  into  line  ; Monroe 
conjures,  commands  his  stern  Scottish  veterans  to  stand  fast  for 
the  dear  sake  of  the  Covenant,  and  smite  the  reprobate  with  the 
strong  arm  of  righteousness. 

But  the  Irish — how  eagerly  they  watch  their  general’s  eye  ! how 
bitterly  they  laugh  as  the  blasphemous  exhortations  of  the  Scottish 
generals  reach  their  ears  ! 

“ A hundred  years  of  wrong  shall  make  their  vengeance  strong  ! 

A hundred  years  of  outrage,  and  blasphemy,  and  broil, 

Since  the  spirit  of  Unrest  sent  forth  on  her  behest 
The  apostate  and  the  Puritan  to  do  their  work  of  spoil.” 

By  a sudden  impulse,  as  it  were,  Owen  Roe  threw  himself  into 
the  midst  of  his  army,  and,  pointing  to  the  enemy,  he  cried  : 

“ Soldiers  ! you  have  your  way.  They  have  sun  and  wind  against 
them  now,  as  we  had  before.  They  waver  already,  though  Monroe 
is  trying  to  rally  for  another  charge.  Strike  home  now  for  God  and 
country,  for  martyred  priests  and  slaughtered  kin,  for  your  women’s 
nameless  wrongs  ! The  Hamiltons  are  there.  Remember  Tiernan 
O’Rourke  and  the  sacred  martyr  of  Sligo  ! Remember  all — all,  my 
brothers — remember  all  the  past ! Think  of  the  future  that  awaits 
your  country  if  you  are  beaten  here  to-day  ! But  beaten  you  can- 
not be.  You  have  purified  your  souls  in  the  laver  of  penance,  you 


Jlf  rs.  J.  Sadlier. 


705 


have  received  the  blessing  sent  you  from  the  Vicegerent  of  Christ ; 
you  are  strong,  your  cause  is  holy,  you  must  and  shall  conquer ! 
On,  then — on,  to  death  or  victory ! I myself  will  lead  the  way, 
and  let  him  that  fails  to  follow  remember  that  he  abandons  his 
general ! ” 

“ Cursed  be  he  who  does  !”  cried  Sir  Phelim  ; “ I’ll  take  care  it 
shan’t  be  me  !” 

He  threw  himself  from  Brien’s  back  as  he  spoke,  and  flung  the 
bridle  to  Shamus,  who  was  close  by  his  side.  Every  colonel  of  the 
army  instantly  followed  his  example,  amid  the  applauding  cheers  of 
the  men,  and  then,  waving  their  broadswords  on  high,  down  they 
dashed  on  the  astonished  Puritans,  their  men  bounding  after  and 
around  them  with  the  terrible  force  of  the  cataract.  Once  more 
the  cry  of  “ Lamh  dearg  aboo  !” 8 awoke  the  echoes  of  the  woods, 
striking  terror  to  the  hearts  of  the  murderous  crew  who  had  so  long 
revelled  in  the  blood  of  the  Irish.  In  vain  did  Monroe,  seeing  the 
approaching  avalanche,  order  Lord  Ardes  with  a squadron  of  horse 
to  clear  a way  through  the  Irish  foot.  In  vain  ! in  vain  his  cavalry 
met  the  rushing  wartide,  and  the  pikes  of  the  kern,  piercing  the 
breasts  of  the  horses,  drove  them  back,  maddened  and  affrighted,  on 
the  ranks  of  their  own  infantry,  whose  bayonets  met  them  in  the  rear. 
Death  ! death  ! death  and  fury  ! where  is  that  haughty  squadron 
now?  Annihilated,  save  a few  officers  who  were  taken  prisoners.  Lord 
Ardes  himself  amongst  the  number.  Now,  Hamilton  and  Blayney, 
Stewart  and  Montgomery,  look  to  it — look  to  the  doom  that  is  on 
you  ! Strong,  fierce,  and  powerful  this  day  are  those  whom  so  long 
you  have  hunted  as  beasts.  The  O’Rourkes  are  in  your  midst,  with 
their  terrible  pikes  and  battle-axes ; the  McGuires  and  McMahons 
are  flaying  you  down  as  though  each  had  the  strength  of  a hundred 
men  ; the  O’Kanes  are  drunk  with  joy  as  Stewart’s  men  go  down  in 
heaps  beneath  their  crushing  blows,  and  the  wild  “ aboo  !”  is  ringing 
high  over  all  the  sounds  of  fight,  as  the  clansmen  follow  their 
valiant  chiefs  on  and  on  through  the  dread  array,  shouting  as  they 
go  the  words  of  doom.  Oh  ! the  might  that  was  in  Owen’s  arm  as, 
first  of  all,  he  clove  his  way  to  the  heart  of  the  Scottish  host,  his 
plume  of  green  and  white  passing  on  like  a meteor  through  the 
battle-cloud  ! And  close  behind  him  followed  Sir  Phelim,  dealing 
death  on  every  side,  and  smiling  grimly  at  the  dull  inertness  of  the 
Scotch ; for  it  seemed  as  though  a spell  had  fallen  on  them  all,  and 

8 “ The  Red  Hand  for  ever  !” 


706  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

the  strength  had  left  their  arms.  Here  and  there,  however,  the 
generals  were  making  an  effort  to  rally  them,  reminding  them  that 
retreat  was  death.  Once  the  savage  Hamilton  encountered  the 
Knight  of  Kinnard,  and,  leaning  forward  in  his  saddle,  aimed  such 
a deadly  thrust  at  his  heart  that  stout  Phelim’s  life  were  not  worth 
a straw  had  not  a pike  at  the  moment  pierced  Hamilton’s  horse 
through  the  head,  and  he  fell  to  the  ground  with  his  rider  under. 
It  was  the  faithful  Shamus  who  had  dealt  the  blow  that  saved  his 
chieftain’s  life ; but  he  well-nigh  paid  the  penalty  of  his  own,  for 
some  three  or  four  of  Hamilton’s  men,  believing  their  leader  slain, 
attacked  the  brave  fellow  with  their  ponderous  axes. 

“ Come  on,  you  hell-hounds  ; I’m  ready  for  you  ! ” cried  Sha- 
mus, with  a flourish  of  his  trusty  pike,  while  Sir  Phelim,  turning 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  clove  the  foremost  of  his  assailants  well- 
nigh  to  the  belt.  Alas  ! the  tide  of  battle,  rushing  on,  speedily  car- 
ried away  the  knight,  and  left  Shamus  still  wedged  in  with  the 
wrathful  followers  of  Hamilton.  Forgotten  as  he  thought  himself 
by  his  friends,  O’Hagan  faced  his  enemies  with  the  courage  of  a 
lion,  and  two  of  them  fell  beneath  his  stalwart  arm,  but  the  third, 
a gigantic  fellow,  maddened  by  the  fate  of  his  comrades,  grasped 
his  weapon  with  both  hands  and  aimed  such  a blow  at  his  opponent’s 
head  as  would  have  shattered  a bar  of  iron.  Great  God  ! what 
means  that  piercing  scream  ? Who  is  it  that  rushes  between,  re- 
ceives the  impending  stroke,  and  saves  the  life  of  Shamus  ? It  is 
Angus  Dim  whom  Shamus  catches  in  his  arms  with  a cry  of  an- 
guish, and,  forgetful  of  his  own  danger,  of  all  save  the  friend  who 
has  given  his  life  for  him,  he  makes  his  way  with  maniac  force 
through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  brandishing  his  bloody  pike  in  one 
hand,  while  the  other  arm  clasps  to  his  breast  the  bleeding  form  of 
the  gallant  young  Rapparee,  to  all  appearance  dead.  By  the  time 
he  laid  his  sorrowful  burden  on  the  sward  beside  the  altar,  the  gay 
green  jacket,  ever  worn  so  jauntily,  was  wet  with  the  life-blood  from 
the  faithful  heart,  yet  the  youth  opened  his  eyes  for  a moment,  and 
smiled  as  he  saw  Shamus.  He  murmured  faintly  : 

“ Aileen  has  got  the  ring,  Shamus  ! — the  Lady  Judith  will  find 
it — next  the  heart — that  loved  you  best — she  will  tell  you — 
all ” 

“ Judith  is  here,”  said  a soft  voice  close  at  hand.  “ But,  merci- 
ful God  ! Angus — Aileen,  my  child  ! is  it  you ? Oh  ! woe  ! woe  ! 
was  it  for  this  you  left  me  ?” 


Mrs.  J.  Sadlier. 


707 


“ What  else  would  take  me — dearest  lady  ! — but  to  watch — over 
Shamus  ? I know  it  was  wrong — to  leave  my  post — ask  the  gene- 
ral’s pardon  for  me — he’ll  not  refuse  it  to  you.  Shamus  ! poor 
Shamus  ! don’t  look  so  wild — be  pacified — I couldn’t  live  for  ever, 
and  what  death  could  be  more  welcome  to  mo  than  this?  We’ll 
meet  again — maybe  soon — I’d  wish  to  see  Phelim — but  there’s  no 
time — bid  him  farewell  for  me,  and  tell  him  I have  done  my 
share — in  revenging — Island  Magee  ! Pray— pray  for  poor  Aileen 
— Lord  Jesus  ! have  mercy — mercy  ! Mary,  Mother  of  Christians  ! 
— help  me  now — now ” 

“ Aileen  ! Aileen  ! ” shouted  Shamus,  and  he  snatched  the  dying 
girl  to  his  breast  again — “ Aileen  ! sure  it  isn’t  dying  you’d  be  ? 
sure  you  wouldn’t  leave  me,  after  all  this  ?”  A bright  smile  beamed 
again  on  the  pallid  face,  and  there  it  rested — Aileen  was  with  the 
dead  ! 

It  was  hard  to  convince  Shamus  that  all  was  over  ; but  when 
once  he  teas  convinced,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  imprinting  a long 
kiss  on  the  pale  lips  of  his  betrothed,  he  placed  her  gently  in  the 
arms  of  Emmeline,  who  sat  weeping  by,  whilst  Judith  knelt  to  offer 
up  a prayer  for  the  departed  spirit. 

“ I’ll  leave  her  here,”  said  he,  “ for  a start  till  I go  back  to  my  work. 
My  work  ! — ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! — ay  ! my  work  ! We  must  make  an  end 
of  it  this  day,  anyhow  ! 0 ladies  ! dear  ladies  ! look  at  her — 

wasn’t  she  the  beauty  ? But,  oh  ! oh  ! the  trick  she  played  on  me  ! 
And  she  telling  me  that  time  when  Phelim  and  me  went  to  see  her 
that  I was  never,  never  to  go  back  next  or  nigh  her — either  me  or 
Phelim — till  the  war  would  be  over  and  the  country  free,  and  the 
Scotch  murderers  clean  gone  ! — 0 Aileen  ! Aileen  ! But  what  am 
I standing  here  for  when  there’s  such  good  work  to  be  done  ? Now, 
God  direct  me  to  Sir  Phelim  ! ” 

Away  he  darted  with  the  speed  of  a lapwing,  nor  stopped  till  he 
made  his  way  again  to  the  side  of  his  chief,  thanking  God  that  he , 
at  least,  was  still  spared. 

Just  then  old  Lorcan  Maguire  was  carried  by  bleeding  profusely 
from  a wound  in  the  chest.  The  brave  old  man  was  near  his  last,  yet 
he  caught  Sir  Phelim’s  eye  for  a moment,  and  he  smiled  a grim  smile. 

“ I’m  done  for,  Phelim  !”  he  hoarsely  articulated  ; “but  so  is  he 
too  ! — the  villain  that  swore  Connor’s  life  away  ! I swore  4:o  do  it 
this  day,  and  I’ve  kept  my  word  ! God,  have  mercy  on  my  soul  ! ” 
The  seer  of  Fermanagh  spoke  never  more. 


708  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

It  was  true  enough  for  Lorcan.  Blavney  was  found  amongst  the 
slain.  His  fall  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  Scotch,  but 
their  misfortunes  were  not  at  the  height.  All  that  dreadful  evening 
the  work  of  death  went  on,  the  fanatics  falling  everywhere  like 
grass  beneath  the  scythe  of  the  mower.  Many  hundreds  had  already 
perished  when  the  Rapparees,  breaking  from  the  bushes  and  thickets 
around,  rushed  into  the  contest,  fresh  and  vigorous,  with  the  terrible 
cry  : 

“ Island  Magee — Death  to  the  bloody  Scots  ! ” 

Like  a fiery  torrent  on  they  passed,  young  Donogh  at  their  head, 
looking  like  one  of  the  athletes  of  old,  his  slight  figure  dilated,  it 
would  seem,  beyond  its  wonted  proportions,  his  arm  endowed  with 
giant  strength  by  the  mightiness  of  his  wrongs,  though  he  knew  not 
then  that  the  last  of  his  race  had  fallen  beneath  a Scottish  axe  but 
a little  while  before. 

It  was  the  day  of  awful  retribution,  the  opportunity  so  long 
promised  to  the  outraged  clans  of  Ulster,  and  good  use  they  made 
of  it.  The  might  of:  the  oppressor  was  withered  as  grass,,  and  the 
stoutest  soldiers  of  the  Covenant  went  down  before  the  fiery  clans- 
men of  the  north,  and  the  legions  of  the  tyrant  were  swept  away 
like  dry  stubble  in  the  flame,  until  the  terrified  survivors,  as  evening 
drew  on,  finding  no  other  retreat  open  to  them,  began  to  precipitate 
themselves  into  the  river,  where  many  hundreds  perished.9  Monroe 
did  not  wait  to  see  the  end  of  it,  He  made  his  escape  from  that 
scene  of  carnage  long  before  the  set  of  sun,  nor  drew  bridle,  as  was 
afterwards  found,  till  he  gained  the  protecting  walls  of  Lisnagarvey, 
a feat  quite  in  keeping  with  the  man’s  character. 

The  strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  but  seventy  of  the  Irish  were 
slain  in  that  battle,  whilst  two  thousand  three  hundred  of  the  enemy 
were  found  dead  on  the  field,  exclusive  of  those  who  found  a grave 
in  the  Blackwater. 

9 Protestant  and  Catholic  historians  all  agree  that  the  Battle  of  Benburb  was  one  of 
the  most  complete  victories  ever  gained  by  Irish  valor.  The  admirable  prudence  and 
military  skill  displayed  by  Owen  O’Neill  are  loudly  extolled  even  by  such  writers  as 
Warner,  Wright,  Leland,  etc. 


SISTER  MARY  FRANCIS  CLARE, 


THE  “NUN  OF  KENMARE.” 


“ I know  of  no  writer  in  any  age  or  country  who  has  in  the  same  time  pro- 
duced so  many  and  such  excellent  works.  She  writes  in  hymn  and  history  of 
saint  and  statesman,  of  heaven  and  Ireland.” — Hon.  W.  E.  Robinson. 

‘ ‘ Ireland  may  well  be  proud  of  this  humble  but  celebrated  inmate  of  the  clois- 
ter, for  she  is  Irish  and  Catholic  in  all  her  instincts,  feelings,  and  aspirations. 
Her  strong  healthy  spirit  of  nationality  is  the  secret  of  her  success  in  the  world 
of  letters.” — The  “Catholic  Record.” 

“We  congratulate  you,  beloved  daughter  in  Christ,  on  having  completed  a 
long  and  difficult  work, 1 which  seemed  to  be  above  woman’s  strength,  with  a 
success  that  has  justly  earned  the  applause  of  the  pious  and  the  learned.  We 
rejoice,  not  only  because  you  have  promoted  by  this  learned  and  eloquent  vol- 
ume the  glory  of  the  illustrious  apostle  of  Ireland,  St.  Patrick,  but  also  because 
you  have  deserved  well  of  the  whole  Church.” — Pius  IX. 


ISS  MARY  CUSACK  was  bom  in  the  historic  city  of  Dub- 


lin in  the  year  1832.  She  belongs  to  a wealthy  Irish 
family,2  many  of  whom  figure  conspicuously  on  the  pages  of  Ireland’s 
eventful  story.  Her  parents  being  Protestants,  educated  their 
daughter  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England.  In  her  six- 
teenth year  Miss  Cusack  left  an  English  boarding-school,  having,  to 
use  an  incorrect  and  much-abused  phrase,  “ finished  her  educa- 
tion.” “ I had  learned,”  she  writes,  “ the  usual  amount  of  accom- 
plishments, but  one  particle  of  solid  instruction  I had  not.  . . . 
When  I left  school  I began  to  educate  myself,  and  devoted  many 
hours  of  the  day  to  solid  reading.  ” 3 

Thus  the  fair  and  bright  young  genius  became  her  own  teacher, 
and  wisely  laid  the  solid  foundation  of  her  after  greatness. 

Filled  with  noble  aspirations,  and  wishing  to  lead  a higher  and 
holier  life.  Miss  Cusack  joined  a Protestant  sisterhood  in  England. 
Five  years  of  such  a career  convinced  her  rich  mind  that  she  had 

1 “The  Life  of  St.  Patrick.” 

2 Sir  Thomas  Cusaok  was  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  ; and  Miss 
Cusack’s  uncle,  Sir  Ralph  Cusack,  was  President  of  the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons  some 
years  ago. 

3 “Protestant  Sisterhoods  and  Catholic  Convents.” 


7io 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


not  found  what  she  sought,  and  with  that  rare  courage  which  is  in- 
spired by  profound  conviction  and  lofty  purpose,  she  became  a 
Catholic,  returned  to  her  native  land,  and  in  1861  joined  the  Order 
of  Poor  Clares,  taking  in  religion  the  name  of  Sister  Mary  Francis 
Clare. 

“ Heedless  of  wealth,”4  says  Mr.  Robinson,  “and  forgetting  all 
pride  of  ancestry,  she  assumed  the  garb  of  poverty,  embraced  the 
religion  which  her  distinguished  ancestors  had  abandoned,  flung  her 
share  of  the  wealth  and  honors  which  they  had  saved  into  the  lap 
of  charity,  and  dedicated  herself  through  life  to  the  cause  of  educa- 
tion and  religion,  of  her  country  and  her  God.  Well  might  we  say 
of  her  : 

“ ‘ She  once  was  a lady  of  honor  and  wealth, 

Bright  glowed  on  her  features  the  roses  of  health  ; 

Her  vesture  was  blended  of  silk  and  of  gold, 

And  her  motion  shook  perfume  from  every  fold  ; 

Joy  revelled  around  her,  love  shone  at  her  side, 

And  gay  was  her  smile  as  the  glance  of  a bride.’ 

“ But  now : 

“ ‘ Her  down-bed  a pallet,  her  trinkets  a bead  ; 

Her  lustre  one  taper  that  serves  her  to  read  ; 

Her  sculpture  the  crucifix,  nailed  by  her  bed  ; 

Her  paintings  one  print  of  the  thorn-crowned  head 
Her  cushion  the  pavement,  that  wearies  her  knees 
Her  music  the  psalm,  or  the  sigh  of  disease. 

The  delicate  lady  lives  mortified  there, 

And  the  feast  is  forsaken  for  fasting  and  prayer.’  ” 

This  remarkably-gifted  Irish  lady,  now  and  for  evermore  to  be 
known  as  the  Nun  of  Kenmare, s is  the  author  of  about  forty  volumes, 
some  historical,  some  biographical,  some  imaginative,  and  many  en- 
tirely devoted  to  religion.  She  appears  to  think  and  write  with  the 
speed  of  the  telegraph.  Indeed,  her  chief  productions  have  been  pub- 
lished during  the  last  ten  years.  Of  these  the  principal  are:  “The 
Illustrated  History  of  Ireland,”  “ The  Life  of  St.  Fatrick,  Apostle 
of  Ireland,”  and  “The  Life  of  Daniel  O’Connell” — all  of  them 
large  volumes.  Of  the  first,  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  no  less  an 
authority  than  John  Mitchel  considered  it  the  best,  most  popular, 

4 Speech  of  March  13,  1872. 

5 From  Kenmare  Convent,  county  of  Kerry,  which  was  founded  in  1861  by  the  Abbess 
Mary  O' Hagan,  sister  of  Lord  O’Hagan  For  a graphic  sketch  of  this  celebrated  institu- 
tion see  the  “Life  of  Mary  O’Hagan,  Abbess  and  Foundress,”  by  Sister  Mary  Francis 
Clare. 


Sister  Alary  Francis  Clare. 


71 1 

and  most  gracefully- written  work  on  Irish  history.  Her  “ Life  of 
St.  Patrick  ” is  the  first  biography  that  gave  a literary  record  in 
some  way  really  worthy  of  the  great  apostle  of  Ireland.  For  this 
work  the  good  and  gifted  sister  received  a flattering  Brief 6 from 
his  Holiness  Pius  IX.  Her  “Life  of  Daniel  O’Connell ” is  an  elo- 
quent and  elaborate  work,  not  in  any  way  inferior  to  her  volume  on 
St.  Patrick.  The  Nun  of  Kenmare  is  now  (1877)  passing  through 
the  press  what  promises  to  he  her  greatest  production  on  Ireland, 
“ The  History  of  the  Irish  Nation,  Social,  Ecclesiastical,  Biographi- 
cal, Industrial,  and  Antiquarian.”  It  deals  in  detail  with  every  sub- 
ject of  Irish  history  and  Irish  art. 

Here,  then,  is  a Catholic  lady — and  a cloistered  nun  at  that — who 
has  accomplished  what  no  other  woman  of  ancient  or  modern  times 
has  ever  done  before.  She  has  created  an  epoch  in  the  history  of 
Irish  literature.  Her  name  is  known  and  revered,  and  her  influence 
is  felt  in  both  hemispheres.  In  the  literary  firmament  she  already 
shines  a star  of  the  first  magnitude ; and  we  can  truly  say  of  Sister 
Mary  Francis  Clare  what  was  said  of  a great  author7  of  the  six- 
teenth century — she  has  written  more  books  than  other  people  have 
read  ! 

We  conclude  by  quoting  the  elegant  stanzas  of  Denis  Florence 
MacCarthy  on  her  “ Illustrated  History  of  Ireland  ” : 

“ Thou  hast  done  well,  thou  gentle  nun  ; 

Thou,  in  thy  narrow  cell,  hast  done 
Work  that  the  manliest  heart  might  shun — 

The  “ History  ” of  our  land. 


“ ’Twas  love  that  winged  that  pen  of  thine, 
’Twas  truth  that  sanctified  each  line, 
’Twas  an  ambition  so  divine 

That  nothing  could  withstand. 

“ So  long  as  there  are  hearts  to  feel 
For  Ireland’s  woe,  for  Ireland’s  weal, 

This  glorious  tribute  of  thy  zeal 

Will  wake  the  grateful  prayer. 


8 This  Brief  is  said  to  be  the  first  letter  of  congratulation  and  approval  that  a/ny  pope 
has  ever  sent  to  any  lady  on  the  completion  of  a book.  It  is  gratifying  to  know  that  an 
Irish  lady  was  the  first  thus  honored. 

7 Erasmus. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


12 


“ Henceforth  be  sung  with  loud  acclaim, 
Be  writ  upon  the  scrolls  of  fame, 

The  last  and  dearest  Irish  name 

Of  Mary  Francis  Clare  ! ” 


FATHER  O’GRADY’S  ADVENTURES. 

[From  the  “ Life  of  Daniel  O’Connell. ”] 

Father  O’Grady  was  then  the  chaplain  of  the  O’Connell  family, 
and  prepared  the  boy 8 for  the  sacraments.  A curious  anecdote  is 
told  of  this  ecclesiastic.  He  resided  at  Lorain  during  the  wars  of 
Marlborough,  and, from  the  troubled  state  of  Flanders,  he  was  reduced 
to  the  deepest  distress.  He  begged  his  way  to  the  coast,  hoping  to 
meet  some  vessel  whose  captain  might  take  him  for  charity  to  Ire- 
land. As  he  was  trudging  slowly  and  painfully  along,  he  suddenly 
fell  in  with  a band  of  robbers.  One  of  the  robbers  was  a Kerry- 
man  named  Denis  Mahony,  who,  moved  to  compassion  by  the 
penniless  poverty  of  the  priest,  and  charmed  with  the  sound  of  his 
native  tongue,  gave  him,  out  of  his  own  share  of  plunder,  the  means 
of  returning  to  Ireland. 

“fcGod  be  merciful  to  poor  Denis  Mahony,”  Father  O’Grady  was 
accustomed  to  say,  when  relating  this  adventure  ; “ I found  him  a 
useful  friend  in  need.  But,  for  all  that,  he  might  prove  a very  dis- 
agreeable neighbor.” 

The  Liberator,  in  after  years,  accounted  for  the  appearance  of 
a native  of  Kerry  among  a gang  of  Flemish  robbers  by  supposing 
that  he  had  served  in  Marlborough’s  army,  and,  deserting  from  ill- 
treatment,  sought  subsistence  on  the  highway  as  a footpad. 

But  poor  Father  O’Grady  only  escaped  from  the  perils  of  starva- 
tion and  the  sea  to  run  the  risk  of  hanging  or  imprisonment  at 
home. 

He  was  seized  on  his  return  to  Ireland,  and  tried  on  the  charge  of 
being  a “ popish  priest.”  A witness  mounted  the  table  and  swore 
he  had  heard  him  “ say”  Mass. 

“ Pray,  sir,”  said  the  judge,  “how  do  you  know  he  said  Mass  ? ” 

“ I heard  him  say  it,  my  lord,”  replied  the  witness. 

“ Did  he  say  it  in  Latin  ?”  enquired  his  lordship. 

“Yes,  my  lord.” 


6 Daniel  O’Connell. 


Sister  Alary  Francis  Clare . 


7*3 


“ Then  you  understand  Latin  ?” 

“A  little.” 

“What  words  did  you  hear  him  use  ? ” 

“Ave  Maria.” 

“ That  is  part  of  the  Lord’s  Prayer,  is  it  not  ?” 

“ Yes,  my  lord,”  was  the  fellow’s  answer. 

“ Here  is  a pretty  witness  to  convict  the  prisoner,”  cried  the 
judge.  “ He  swears  the  Ave  Maria  is  Latin  for  the  Lord’s  Prayer.” 
As  the  judge  pronounced  a favorable  charge,  the  jury  acquitted 
Father  O’Grady. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ORR. 

[From  the  “ Illustrated  History  of  Ireland.”] 

In  the  autumn  of  this  year  (1797)  Mr.  Orr,  of  Antrim,  was  tried 
and  executed  on  a charge  of  administering  the  oath  of  the  United 
Irishmen  to  a soldier.  This  gentleman  was  a person  of  high  charac- 
ter and  respectability.  He  solemnly  protested  his  innocence.  The 
soldier,  stung  with  remorse,  swore  before  a magistrate  that  the  testi- 
mony he  gave  at  the  trial  was  false.  Petitions  were  at  once  sent  in 
praying  for  the  release  of  the  prisoner,  but  in  vain.  He  was  executed 
on  the  14th  of  October,  though  no  one  doubted  his  innocence  ; and 
“Orr’s  fate”  became  a watchword  of,  and  an  incitement  to,  rebel- 
lion. Several  of  the  jury  made  a solemn  oath  after  the  trial  that 
when  locked  up  for  the  night  to  “ consider  ” their  verdict  they 
were  supplied  abundantly  with  intoxicating  drinks,  and  informed, 
one  and  all,  that  if  they  did  not  give  the  required  verdict  of  guilty, 
they  should  themselves  be  prosecuted  as  United  Irishmen.  Mr.  Orr 
was  offered  his  life  and  his  liberty  again  and  again  if  he  would  admit 
his  guilt ; his  wife  and  four  young  children  added  their  tears  and 
entreaties  to  the  persuasions  of  his  friends  ; but  he  preferred  truth 
and  honor  to  life  and  freedom.  His  end  was  worthy  of  his 
resolution.  On  the  scaffold  he  turned  to  his  faithful  attendant  and 
asked  him  to  remove  his  watch,  as  he  should  need  it  no  more.  Mr. 
Orr  was  a sincere  Protestant ; his  servant  was  a Catholic.  His  last 
words  are  happily  still  on  record.  He  showed  the  world  how  a 
Protestant  patriot  could  die,  and  that  the  more  sincere  and  deep  his 
piety  the  less  likely  he  would  be  to  indulge  in  fanatical  hatred  of 
those  who  differed  from  him.  “You,  my  friend,”  he  said  to  his 


714  The  Prose  anct  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

weeping  and  devoted  servant — “you,  my  friend,  and  1 must  now 
part.  Our  stations  here  on  earth  have  been  a little  different,  and 
our  mode  of  worshipping  the  Almighty  Being  that  we  both  adore. 
Before  his  presence  we  shall  stand  equal.  Farewell  ! Remember 
Orr  ! ” 


CROMWELL'S  FANATICISM  AND  BARBARITIES  IN  IRELAND. 

[From  the  “ Illustrated  History  of  Ireland.”] 

Cromwell  had  been  made  lieutenant-general  of  the  English 
army  in  Ireland,  but  as  yet  he  had  been  unable  to  take  command  in 
person.  His  position  was  precarious,  and  he  wished  to  secure  his 
influence  still  more  firmly  in  his  own  country  before  he  attempted 
the  conquest  of  another.  He  had  succeeded  so  far  in  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  plans  that  his  departure  and  his  journey  to  Bristol 
were  undertaken  in  royal  style.  He  left  the  metropolis  early  in 
June  in  a coach  drawn  by  six  gallant  Flanders  mares,  and  con- 
cluded his  progress  at  Milford  Haven,  where  he  embarked,  reaching 
Ireland  on  the  14tli  of  August,  1649.  He  was  attended  by  some  of 
the  most  famous  of  the  Parliamentary  generals— his  son  Henry,  the 
future  lord-deputy,  Monk,  Blake,  Ireton,  Waller,  Ludlow,  and 
others.  He  brought  with  him  for  the  propagation  of  the  Gospel 
and  the  Commonwealth  £200,000  in  money,  eight  regiments  of 
foot,  six  of  horse,  several  troops  of  dragoons,  a large  supply  of  Bi- 
bles, and  a corresponding  provision  of  ammunition  and  scythes. 
The  Bibles  were  to  be  distributed  amongst  his  soldiers,  and  to  be 
given  to  the  poor  unfortunate  natives,  who  could  not  understand  a 
word  of  their  contents.  The  scythes  and  sickles  were  to  deprive 
them  of  all  means  of  living,  and  to  preach  a ghastly  commentary 
on  the  conduct  of  the  men  who  wished  to  convert  them  to  the  new 
Gospel,  which  certainly  was  not  one  of  peace.  Cromwell  now  is- 
sued two  proclamations — one  against  intemperance,  for  he  knew 
well  the  work  that  was  before  him,  and  he  could  not  afford  to  have 
a single  drunken  soldier  in  his  camp.  The  other  proclamation  'pro- 
hibited plundering  the  country  people  ; it  was  scarcely  less  prudent. 
His  soldiers  might  any  day  become  his  masters  if  they  were  not 
kept  under  strict  control,  and  there  are  few  things  which  so  effect- 
ually lessen  military  discipline  as  permission  to  plunder.  He  also 
wished  to  encourage  the  country  people  to  bring  in  provisions.  His 
arrangements  all  succeeded. 


Sister  Mary  Francis  Clare. 


7i5 


Ormonde  had  garrisoned  Drogheda  with  3,000  of  his  choicest 
troops.  They  were  partly  English,  and  were  commanded  by  a brave 
loyalist,  Sir  Arthur  Aston.  This  was  really  the  most  important 
town  in  Ireland,  and  Cromwell,  whose  skill  as  a military  general  can- 
not be  disputed,  at  once  determined  to  lay  siege  to  it.  He  encamped 
before  the  devoted  city  on  the  2d  of  September,  and  in  a few  days 
had  his  siege-guns  posted  on  the  hill  still  known  as  Cromwell’s 
Fort.  Two  breaches  were  made  on  the  10th,  and  he  sent  in 
his  storming  parties  about  five  o’clock  in  the  evening.  Earth- 
works had  been  thrown  up  inside,  and  the  garrison  resisted  with 
undiminished  bravery.  The  besieged  at  last  wavered  ; quarter  was 
promised  to  them,  and  they  yielded  ; but  the  promise  came  from 
men  who  knew  neither  how  to  keep  faith  or  to  show  mercy.  The 
brave  governor,  Sir  Arthur  Aston,  retired  with  his  staff  to  an  old 
mill  on  an  eminence,  but  they  were  disarmed  and  slain  in  cold 
blood.  The  officers  and  soldiers  were  first  exterminated,  and  then 
men,  women,  and  children  were  put  to  the  sword.  The  butchery 
occupied  five  entire  days.  Cromwell  has  himself  described  the 
scene,  and  glories  in  his  cruelty.  Another  eye-witness,  an  officer  in 
his  army,  has  described  it  also,  but  with  some  faint  touch  of  re- 
morse. A number  of  the  townspeople  fled  for  safety  to  St.  Peter’s 
Church  on  the  north  side  of  the  city,  but  every  one  of  them  was 
murdered,  all  defenceless  and  unarmed  as  they  were  ; others  took 
refuge  in  the  church  steeple,  but  it  was  of  wood,  and  Cromwell  him- 
self gave  orders  that  it  should  be  set  on  fire,  and  those  who  attempt- 
ed to  escape  the  flames  were  piked.  The  principal  ladies  of  the 
city  had  sheltered  themselves  in  the  crypts.  It  might  have  been 
supposed  that  this  precaution  should  be  unnecessary,  or  at  least 
that  English  officers  would  respect  their  sex,  but,  alas  ! for  common 
humanity,  it  was  not  so.  When  the  slaughter  had  been  accom- 
plished above,  it  was  continued  below.  Neither  youth  nor  beauty 
was  spared.  Thomas  Wood,  who  was  one  of  these  officers  and  bro- 
ther to  Anthony  Wood,  the  Oxford  historian,  says  he  found  in  these 
vaults  “ the  flower  and  choicest  of  the  women  and  ladies  belonging 
to  the  town,  amongst  whom  a most  handsome  virgin,  arrayed  in 
costly  and  gorgeous  apparel,  kneeling  down  to  him  with  tears  and 
prayers  to  save  her  life.”  Touched  by  her  beauty  and  her  entrea- 
ties, he  attempted  to  save  her.  A soldier  thrust  a sword  into  her 
body,  and  the  officer,  recovering  from  his  momentary  fit  of  compas- 
sion, “ flung  her  down  over  the  rocks,”  according  to  his  own 


7 1 6 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

account,  but  first  took  care  to  possess  himself  of  her  money  and 
jewels.  This  officer  also  mentions  that  the  soldiers  were  in  the 
habit  of  taking  up  a child  and  using  it  as  a buckler  when  they 
wished  to  ascend  the  lofts  and  galleries  of  the  church,  to  save  them- 
selves from  being  shot  or  brained.  It  is  an  evidence  that  they  knew 
their  victims  to  be  less  cruel  than  themselves  or  the  expedient  would 
not  have  been  found  to  answer. 

Cromwell  wrote  an  account  of  this  massacre  to  the  “ Council  of 
State.”  Ilis  letters,  as  his  admiring  editor  9 observes,  “tell  their 
own  tale,”  and  unquestionably  that  tale  plainly  intimates  that 
whether  the  Republican  general  were  hypocrite  or  fanatic — and 
it  is  probable  he  was  a compound  of  both — he  certainly,  on  his 
own  showing,  was  little  less  than  a demon  of  cruelty.  Cromwell 
writes  thus  : “It  hath  pleased  God  to  bless  our  endeavors  at 
Drogheda.  After  battery,  we  stormed  it.  The  enemy  were  about 
3,000  strong  in  the  town.  They  made  a stout  resistance.  I believe 
we  put  to  the  sword  the  whole  number  of  defendants.  I do  not 
think  thirty  of  the  whole  number  escaped  with  their  lives.  Those 
that  did  are  in  safe  custody  for  the  Barbadoes.  This  hath  been  a 
marvellous  great  mercy.”  In  another  letter  he  says  that  this  “great 
thing”  was  done  “by  the  Spirit  of  God.” 


9 Carlyle. 


FATHER  THOMAS  N.  BURKE,  O.P., 


THE  IRISH  LACORDAIRE. 

“ He  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  men  of  this  our  nineteenth  century.” — 
Archbishop  MacHale. 

“The  name  of  Father  Burke  will  be  as  famous  in  Irish  annals  as  that  of  his 
illustrious  countryman,  th  great  Edmund  Burke.  If  the  latter  was  the  oracle 
of  the  senate,  the  former  is  a prince  of  the  pulpit.” — The  “Catholic  Record.” 

WE  began  our  sketches  of  Irish  writers  with  a famous  monk 
and  missionary  of  the  sixth  century,  and  we  bring  them  to 
a close  with  a famous  monk  and  missionary  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Surely  glory  and  hope  smile  upon  the  wonderful  land 
that  can  produce  such  men  as  St.  Columbkille  in  the  sixth  century 
and  Father  Burke  in  the  nineteenth  century  ! 

Thomas  N.  Burke  was  born  in  the  good  old  city  of  Galway  in  the 
year  1830.  Irish  was  the  first  language  he  spoke,  and  among  the 
“things  of  beauty”  which,  it  is  said,  he  committed  to  memory  in 
childhood  were  the  most  popular  of  Moore’s  “Melodies”  as  trans- 
lated into  Irish  by  Archbishop  MacHale.  The  bright  and  hearty 
boy  received  his  early  education  in  his  native  city  at  the  schools  of 
Erasmus  Smith.  Though  fond  of  play,  he  loved  his  books,  and  was 
a hard,  earnest  student. 

In  1847  he  entered  the  Order  of  St.  Dominic,  left  his  comfortable 
home  and  his  dear  Irish  father  and  mother,  and  set  out  for  Rome, 
where  he  completed  his  ecclesiastical  studies.  After  five  well-spent 
years  in  Italy,  his  superior  sent  him  to  England,  where  he  was 
ordained  priest.  We  have  neither  space  nor  ability  to  follow  Father 
Burke  in  his  labors,  in  his  onward  and  upward  steps  in  fame,  virtue, 
and  learning.  Gloucestershire,  England,  was  the  scene  of  his 
arduous  missionary  labors  for  four  years;  then  he  was  entrusted 
with  the  important  task  of  founding  a novitiate  and  house  of  studies 
for  his  Order  in  Ireland.  His  eloquence  first  attracted  attention  in 
Dublin,  where  he  preached  in  the  old  church  of  St.  Saviour,  Den- 
mark Street.  A retreat  which  he  conducted  for  the  students  of 
Maynooth  College  in  1859  established  his  fame  as  the  most  eloquent 

717 


7iS 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


preacher  ever  heard  within  the  classic  walls  of  that  institution.  In 
18G6  the  scene  of  his  labors  was  changed.  He  was  recalled  to  Home 
and  appointed  superior  of  St.  Clement’s,  the  oldest  basilica  within 
the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills.  There  upon  him  was  conferred  the  rare 
honor  of  delivering  the  Lenten  sermons  in  English — an  office  which 
at  various  times  had  been  filled  by  Archbishop  MacHale,  Cardinal 
Wiseman,  and  Cardinal  Manning.  “ Immediately  previous  to  the 
assembling  of  the  Vatican  Council,”  says  a recent  writer,  “his  voice 
was  heard  for  the  last  time  in  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  by  as  in- 
tellectual an  audience  as  ever  hung  with  rapture  upon  the  accents 
of  Bossuet  and  Bourdaloue.” 

In  1871  Father  Burke  was  appointed  Visitor  of  the  Dominican 
Order  in  the  United  States,  and  in  the  autumn  of  that  year  he 
landed  in  Hew  York.  His  career  in  this  Republic  was  the  greatest 
triumph  of  his  life.  In  the  words  of  the  illustrious  Archbishop 
MacHale,  “It  might  be  said  of  him  as  of  Caesar,  Veni,  vidi,  vici ; 
but  how  dissimilar  were  those  conquests.” 

Clothed  in  the  white  habit  of  his  Order,  he  spoke,  and  such  was 
his  eloquence  that  this  whole  Republic  listened,  all  were  delighted, 
and,  for  the  time,  even  grim  prejudice  hung  its  head  in  shame,  and 
falsehood  slunk  out  of  sight.  In  his  hands  old  truths  assumed  new 
beauties.  Whatever  he  touched  he  adorned.  He  spoke  of  the 
ancient  glories  of  Ireland,  the  fidelity  of  the  Irish  race,  and  the  holy 
grandeur  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  at  the  very  sound  of  his  magic 
voice  multitudes  were  charmed  and  elevated  to  enthusiasm.  In 
vain  do  we  search  the  history  of  this  age  for  anything  similar.  On 
one  occasion  he  preached  at  the  dedication  of  a church  in  Massa- 
chusetts in  the  morning,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day  he 
addressed  in  the  Coliseum  of  Boston  40,000  people — “ the  largest 
paying  audience  ever  assembled  to  listen  to  one  man.” 

Fronde,  the  famous  English  historian,  came  to  America  and  be- 
gan to  slander  Ireland.  The  great  Dominican  was  called  on  to 
reply.  He  did  so  in  his  own  direct,  manly,  courteous  style,  and  never 
was  victory  more  complete.  With  reputation  sadly  lowered,  and 
the  word  “libeller  ” written  across  his  name,  the  pompous  English- 
man, renowned  scholar  of  Oxford,  and  ardent  admirer  of  Henry 
VIII.,  turned  his  back  on  the  Republic,  and  took  the  shortest  route 
home. 

Father  Burke  is  a ruler  of  thought  and  a master  of  simple,  effec- 
tive language.  Like  the  plays  of  Shakspeare,  new  beauties  can  be 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke , O.P. 


7 19 

discovered  in  each  of  the  matchless  discourses  of  the  eloquent 
Dominican.  Referring  to  the  sorrows  of  Pius  IX.,  he  says  : “ He  is 
now  on  the  road  to  Calvary,  bending  under  the  weight  of  his  cross. 
Let  every  man  be  a Simon  the  Cyrenian ; let  every  woman  be  a 
Veronica.” 

Again,  he  refers  to  the  blood-stained  career  of  Protestantism  in 
Ireland,  and  in  three  sentences  he  writes  its  history  : “ The  ground 
was  dug  as  for  a grave.  The  seedling  of  Protestantism  was  cast 
into  the  soil,  and  the  blood  of  the  Irish  nation  was  poured  in  to 
warm  it  and  bring  it  forth.  It  never  grew  ; it  never  bloomed  ; it 
never  came  forth.”  His  pages  sparkle  with  humor.  “ An  effort,” 
he  remarks,  “to  excite  an  Irishman  to  dislike  England  is  about  as 
necessary  as  to  encourage  a cat  to  take  a mouse.”  This  is  word 
painting  not,  perhaps,  surpassed  by  any  writer  of  the  English 
language. 

Father  Burke’s  Lectures,  in  our  opinion,  entitle  him  to  rank 
with  the  best  authors  of  this  age.  Live  they  will.  The  subjects 
are  well  chosen,  and  treated  in  a popular  style  and  with  unrivalled 
skill.  But  they  will  live  not  on  account  of  the  subjects,  nor  even 
of  the  style-  of  treatment.  They  are  rich  in  words  that  move  and 
thoughts  that  burn.  They  possess  that  soul,  that  vital  element, 
which  in  writing  is  proof  against  decay.  I11  the  following  lecture 
we  present  the  reader  with  a masterpiece  of  eloquence,  history,  and 
philosophy. 

THE  IRISH  PEOPLE  IN  THEIR  RELATION  TO  CATHOLICITY. 

[A  Lecture  delivered  in  New  York  City  June  6,  1872.] 

My  Friends  : The  subject  on  which  I have  the  honor  to  address 
you  this  evening  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  that  can  occupy  your 
attention  or  mine.  It  is  : Christianity  ; or,  The  Christian 
Religion  as  reflected  in  the  National  Character  of  the 
Irish  Race.  I say  this  subject  is  interesting,  for  nothing  that  can 
offer  itself  to  the  consideration  of  the  thoughtful  mind,  or  to  the 
philosopher,  can  possibly  be  more  in  teresting  than  the  study  of  the 
character  and  the  genius  of  a people.  It  is  the  grandest  question  of 
a human  sort  that  could  occujiy  the  attention  of  man.  The  whole 
race  comes  under  a mental  review  ; the  history  of  that  race  is  to  be 
ascertained;  the  antecedents  of  that  people  have  to  be  studied  in 
order  to  account  for  the  national  character,  as  it  represents  itself 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 


720 


to-day  among  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Every  nation,  every  people 
under  heaven  has  its  own  peculiar  national  character.  The  nation, 
the  race  is  made  up  of  thousands  and  millions  of  individual  men  and 
women.  Whatever  the  individual  is,  that  the  nation  is  found  to  he  in 
the  aggregate.  Whatever  influences  the  individual  was  subjected  to 
111  forming  his  character,  establishing  a certain  tone  of  thought,  cer- 
tain ' sympathies,  antipathies,  likings  or  dislikings — whatever,  I 
say,  forms  the  individual  character  in  all  these  particulars,  the 
same  forms  the  nation  and  the  race,  because  the  nation  is  but  an 
assemblage  of  individuals. 

Now,  I ask  you,  among  all  the  influences  that  can  be  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  individual  man,  to  form  his  character,  to  make  him 
either  good  or  bad,  to  give  tone  to  his  thoughts,  to  string  his  soul 
and  to  tune  it,  to  make  him  fly  to  God,  to  produce  all  this  which  is 
called  character — is  it  not  perfectly  true  that  the  most  powerful  in- 
fluence of  all  is  that  man’s  religion  ? It  is  not  so  much  his  educa- 
tion ; for  men  may  be  equally  educated — one  just  as  well  as  the 
other — yet  they  may  be  different  from  each  other  as  day  from  night. 
It  is  not  so  much  his  associations,  for  men  may  be  in  the  same  walk 
of  life,  men  may  be  surrounded  by  the  same  circumstances  of 
family,  of  antecedents,  of  wealth  or  poverty,  as  the  case  may  be,  yet 
may  be  as  different  as  day  and  night.  But  when  religion  comes  in 
and  fills  the  mind  with  a certain  knowledge,  fills  the  soul  with  cer- 
tain principles,  elevates  the  man  to  a recognition  and  acknowledg- 
ment of  certain  truths,  imposes  upon  him  certain  truths  and  in  the 
nature  of  the  most  sacred  of  all  obligations — namely,  the  obligation 
of  eternal  salvation — when  this  principle  comes  in  it  immediately 
forms  the  man’s  character,  determines  what  manner  of  man  he  shall 
be,  gives  a moral  tone  to  the  man’s  whole  life.  And  so  it  is  with 
nations. 

Among  the  influences  that  form  a nation’s  character,  that  give  to 
a people  the  stamp  of  their  national  and  original  individuality,  the 
most  potent  of  all  is  the  nation’s  religion.  If  that  religion  be 
gloomy,  if  it  be  a fatalistic  doctrine,  telling  every  man  he  was 
created  to  be  damned,  you  at  once  induce  upon  the  people  or  the 
nation  that  profess  it  a hang-dog,  miserable,  melancholy  feeling 
that  makes  them  go  through  life  like  some  of  our  New  England 
Calvinists,  sniffling  and  sighing  and  lifting  up  their  eyes,  telling 
everybody  that  if  they  look  crooked,  looking  either  to  the  right  or 
the  left,  they  will  go  to  hell.  You  know  the  propensity  of  some 


Father  Thomas  N Burke , O.P. 


721 


people  to  be  always  damning  one  another.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
Lhe  religion  be  bright ; if  it  open  a glimpse  of  heaven,  founded  upon 
an  intellectual  principle  ; if  it  springs  up  a man’s  hopes,  tells  him  in 
all  his  adversities  and  his  misfortunes  to  look  up,  gives  him  a 
glimpse  that  the  God  that  made  him  is  waiting  to  crown  him  with 
glory,  you  will  have  a bright,  cheerful,  brave,  and  courageous 
people. 

Now,  such  a religion  is  the  Christianity  that  Christ  founded  upon 
this  earth.  I assert  that  if  that  religion  of  Christ  be  a true  reli- 
gion— as  we  know  it  to  be — that  there  is  not  upon  this  earth  a race 
whose  national  character  has  been  so  thoroughly  moulded  and  formed 
by  that  divine  religion  as  the  Irish  race,  to  which  I belong.  It  is  easy, 
my  friends,  to  make  assertions ; it  is  not  so  easy  to  prove  them.  I 
am  not  come  here  to-night  to  flatter  you  or  to  make  crude  assertions  ; 
but  I am  come  here  to  lay  down  the  principle  which  is  just  enunci- 
ated, and  to  prove  it. 

What  is  the  Christian  character  ? What  character  does  Christi- 
anity form  in  a man  ? What  does  it  make  of  a man  ? Men  are 
born  into  this  world  more  or  less  alike.  It  is  true  that  the  Chinaman, 
has  no  bridge  to  his  nose,  and  that  his  eyes  turn  up,  both  occupied 
watching  where  the  bridge  ought  to  be ; but  that  is  an  immaterial 
thing.  Intellectually,  and  even  morally,  all  men  are  mostly  born 
alike.  The  world  takes  them  in  hand  and  turns  out  a certain  class 
of  men  equal  to  its  own  requirements,  and  tries  to  make  him  every- 
thing that  the  world  wants  him  to  be.  God  also  takes  him  in  hand. 
God  makes  him  to  be  not  only  what  the  world  expects  of  him,  but 
also  what  God  and  Heaven  expect  of  him.  That  is  the  difference 
between  the  two  classes  of  men.  The  man  whose  character  is  mostly 
worldly — who  is  not  a Christian — and  the  man  whose  character  is 
formed  by  the  divine  religion  of  Christ.  What  does  the  world  ex- 
pect and  try  to  make  of  the  child  ? Well,  it  will  try  to  make  him 
an  honest  man.  And  this  is  a good  thing  ; the  world  says  it  is  “the 
noblest  work  of  God.”  Without  going  so  far  as  to  say  this, 
I say  that  an  honest  man  is  very  nearly  the  noblest  work  of  God. 
The  man  who  is  equal  to  all  his  engagements,  the  man  who  is  not  a 
thief  or  a robber  (the  world  does  not  like  that),  the  man  who  is 
commercially  honest  and  fair  in-  his  dealings  with  his  fellow-men — 
that  is  a valuable  virtue.  The  world  expects  him  to  be  an  industri- 
ous man,  a man  who  minds  his  business,  and  tries,  as  we  say  in 
Ireland,  “ to  make  a penny  of  money.”  That  is  a very  good  thing. 


7 22  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

I hope  you  will  all  attend  to  it.  I will  be  gladdened  and  delighted — 
if  ever  I should  come  to  America  again — I will  be  overjoyed,  to  hear 
if  any  one  comes  to  me  and  says  in  truth  : “ Why,  Father  Burke,  all 
these  Irishmen  you  saw  in  New  York  when  you  were  here  before 
have  become  wealthy,  and  are  at  the  top  of  the  wheel.”  Nothing 
could  give  me  more  cheer.  The  world  expects  a man  to  be  indus- 
trious and  temperate;  because  if  a man  is  not  industrious,  is  not 
temperate,  he  never  goes  ahead  ; he  does  no  good  for  his  Cod,  his 
.country,  or  anybody.  Therefore,  this  is  also  a good  thing. 

But  when  the  world  has  made  a truth-telling  man  an  honest  man, 
;an  industrious  and  a temperate  man,  the  world  is  satisfied.  The 
world  says:  “ I have  done  enough  ; that  is  all  I want.”  The  man 
makes  a fortune,  the  man  establishes  a name,  and  the  world  at  once 
— society  around  him — offer  him  the  incense  of  their  praise.  They 
say:  “ There  was  a splendid  man.  He  left  his  mark  upon  society.” 
And  they  come  together  and  put  in  a subscription  to  erect  a statue 
for  him  in  the  Central  Park.  But  they  have  not  made  a Christian. 
All  those  are  human  virtues,  excellent  and  necessary.  Don’t  imagine 
that  I want  to  say  a word  against  them.  They  are  necessary  virtues. 
No  man  can  be  a true  Christian  unless  he  have  them.  But  the 
Christian  has  a great  deal  more.  He  is  perfectly  distinctive  in  his 
character  from  the  honest,  truth- telling,  thrifty,  and  temperate  man 
that  the  world  makes.  The  Christian  character  is  founded  upon  all 
these  human  virtues,  for  it  supposes  them  all,  and  then,  when  it 
has  laid  the  foundation  of  all  this — the  foundation  of  nature — it 
follows  up  with  the  magnificent  super-edifice  of  grace,  and  the 
Christian  character  is  founded  in  man  by  the  three  virtues — faith, 
hope,  and  love.  Therefore,  St.  Paul,  speaking  to  the  early  Chris- 
tians, said  to  them:  “Now,  my  friends  and  brethren,  you  are  honest, 
you  are  sober,  you  are  industrious,  you  have  all  these  virtues  and  I 
praise  you  for  them  ; I tell  you  now  there  remain  unto  you  faith, 
hope,  and  charity — these  three.”  For  these  three  are  the  formation 
of  the  Christian  character.  Let  us  examine  what  these  three  vir- 
tues mean.  First  of  all,  my  friends,  these  three  virtues  are  distin- 
guished from  all  the  human  virtues  in  this  : that  the  human  virtues 
— honesty,  sobriety,  temperance,  truthfulness,  fidelity,  and  so  on — 
establish  a man  in  his  proper  relations  to  his  fellow-men  and  to  him- 
self. They  have  nothing  to  say  of  Cod  directly  nor  indirectly.  If 
I am  an  honest  man,  it  means  that  I pay  my  debts.  To  whom  do  I 
pay  these  debts  ? To  the  people  I owe  money  to — to  my  butcher. 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke,  O.P. 


7*3 


my  baker,  my  tailor,  etc.  ; I meet  their  bills  and  pay  them.  T owe 
no  man  anything,  and  people  say  I am  an  honest  man.  That  means 
that  I have  done  my  duty  to  my  fellow-men.  It  is  no  direct  homage 
to  God.  It  is  only  homage  to  God  when  that  truth  springs  from 
the  supernatural  and  divine  motive  of  faith.  If  I am  a temperate 
man,  it  means,  especially  to  the  Irishman,  that  I am  a loving  father, 
a good  husband,  a good  son.  An  Irishman  is  all  this  as  long  as  he 
is  temperate ; but  remember  that  the  wife,  the  child,  the  father,  and 
the  mother  are  not  God.  Temperance  makes  him  all  right  in  rela- 
tion to  himself  and  his  family  around  him.  If  I am  a truth-telling 
man,  the  meaning  is,  I am  “on  the  square,”  as  they  say,  with  my 
neighbors  ; but  my  neighbors  are  not  God.  But  the  moment  I am 
actuated  by  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  that  moment  I am  elevated  to- 
wards God.  My  faith  tells  me  there  is  a God.  If  that  God  has 
spoken  to  me,  that  God  has  told  me  things  which  I cannot  under- 
stand, and  yet  I am  bound  to  believe.  Faith  is  the  virtue  that 
realizes  Almighty  God  and  all  the  things  of  God  as  they  are  known 
by  divine  revelation. 

There  are  two  worlds,  the  visible  and  the  invisible — the  world 
that  we  see  and  the  world  we  do  not  see.  The  world  that  we 
see  is  our  native  country,  our  families,  our  friends,  our  churches, 
our  Sunday  for  amusement,  our  pleasant  evenings,  and  so  on.  All 
these  things  make  up  the  visible  world  that  we  see.  But  there  is 
another  world  that  “ eye  hath  not  seen,  ear  hath  not  heard,  nor  hath 
it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive,”  and  that  world  is  the 
world  revealed  to  us  by  faith.  It  is  far  more  real,  far  more  lasting, 
far  more  substantial  than  the  visible  world.  We  say  in  the  creed, 
“I  believe  in  God  the  Father  Almighty,  Creator  of  all  things  visible 
and  invisible.”  Now,  in  that  invisible  world  first  of  all  is  the  God 
that  created  and  redeemed  us.  We  have  not  seen  him,  yet  we  know 
that  he  exists.  In  that  invisible  world  are  the  angels  and  saints. 
We  have  not  seen  them,  yet  we  know  they  exist.  In  that  invisible 
world  are  all  the  friends  that  we  loved  who  have  been  taken  from 
us  by  the  hand  of  death,  those  the  very  sound  of  whose  name 
brings  the  tear  to  our  eyes  and  the  prayer  of  supplication  to  our 
lips.  We  see  them  no  longer,  but  we  know  that  they  still  live  in 
that  invisible  world  that  “eye  hath  not  seen.”  Now,  the  virtue  of 
faith  in  the  Christian  character  is  the  power  that  God  gives  by 
divine  grace  to  a man  to  realize  that  invisible  world — to  realize  it  so 
that  he  makes  it  more  substantial  to  him  than  the  world  around 


724  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

him  ; that  he  realizes  more  about  it,  and  is  more  interested 
in  it,  and  almost  knows  more  about  it,  than  the  world  around 
him.  The  virtue  of  faith  is  that  power  of  God  by  which  a man  is 
enabled  to  realize  the  invisible,  for  the  object  of  faith  is  invisible. 
Our  Lord  says  to  Thomas,  the  apostle,  “ Because  thou  hast  seen  thou 
belie  vest  ; blessed  are  they  that  have  not  seen  and  have  believed.” 

This  is  the  first  feature  of  the  Christian  character — the  power  of 
realizing  the  unseen,  the  power  of  knowing  it,  the  power  of  feeling 
it,  the  power  of  substantiating  it  to  the  soul  and  to  the  mind,  until 
out  of  that  substantiation  of  the  invisible  comes  the  engrossing^ 
ardent  desire  to  make  that  invisible  surround  him.  This  is  faith. 
Consequently  the  man  of  faith,  in  addition  to  being  honest,  indus- 
trious, temperate,  truthful,  and  having  all  the  human  virtues,  is  a 
firm  believer.  It  costs  him  no  effort  to  believe  in  that  mystery,  be- 
cause he  cannot  comprehend  it,  because  he  has  never  seen  it.  He 
knows  it  is  true ; he  admits  that  truth  ; he  stakes  his  own  life  upon 
the  issue  of  that  divine  truth  which  he  has  apprehended  by  the  act 
of  the  intelligence  and  not  by  the  senses. 

The  next  great  feature  of  the  Christian  character  is  the  virtue  of 
hope.  The  Christian  man  is  confident  in  his  hope.  God  has  made 
certain  promises.  God  has  said  that  neither  in  this  world  nor  in 
the  world  to  come  will  he  abandon  the  just  man.  He  may  try  him 
with  poverty  ; he  may  try  him  with  sickness ; he  may  demand  what- 
ever sacrifice  he  will ; but  he  never  will  abandon  him.  Thus  saith 
the  Lord.  How,  the  virtue  of  hope  is  that  which  enables  the  Chris- 
tian man  to  rest  with  perfect  security — with  unfailing,  undying 
confidence  in  every  promise  of  God,  as  long  as  the  man  himself  ful- 
fils the  conditions  of  these  promises.  The  consequence  is  that  the 
Christian  man,  by  virtue  of  this  hope  that  is  in  him,  is  lifted  up 
beyond  all  the  miseries  and  sorrows  of  this  world,  and  he  looks  upon 
them  all  in  their  true  light.  If  poverty  comes  upon  him,  he  remem- 
bers the  poverty  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  he  says  in  his  hope,  “Well, 
the  Lord  passed  through  the  ways  of  poverty  into  the  rest  of  his 
glory  ; so  shall  I rest  as  he  did.  I hope  for  it.”  If  sickness  or  sor- 
row come  upon  him,  he  looks  upon  the  trials  and  sorrows  of  our 
God.  If  difficulties  rise  in  his  path,  he  never  despairs  in  himself,  for 
he  has  the  promise  of  God  that  these  difficulties  are  only  trials  sent 
by  God,  and,  sooner  or  later,  he  will  triumph  over  them — perhaps 
in  time,  but  certainly  in  eternity. 

Finally,  the  third  great  feature  of  the  Christian  character  is  the 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke , O.P. 


725 


virtue  of  love.  It  is  the  active  virtue  that  is  in  a man,  forcing  him 
to  love  his  God,  to  be  faithful  to  his  God,  to  love  his  religion,  to  be 
faithful  to  that  religion,  to  love  his  neighbor  as  he  loves  himself, 
especially  to  love  those  who  have  the  first  claim  upon  him — the 
father  and  mother  that  love  him,  to  whom  he  is  bound  to  give  honor 
as  well  as  love  ; then  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  and  the  children  that 
God  has  given  him,  to  whom  he  is  bound  to  give  support  and  sus- 
tenance as  wrell  as  love  ; his  very  enemies,  he  must  have  no  enemy, 
no  personal  desire  for  revenge  at  all ; but  if  there  be  a good  cause, 
he  must  defend  that  cause,  even  though  he  smite  his  enemy,  the 
enemy  not  of  him  personally,  but  of  his  cause ; but  always  be  ready 
to  show  mercy  and  to  exhibit  love,  even  to  his  enemies.  This  is  the 
Christian  man  ; how  different  from  the  mere  man  of  the  world  ! 
The  Christian  man’s  faith  acknowledges  the  claims  of  God;  his 
hope  strains  after  God ; his  love  lays  hold  of  God  ; he  makes  God 
his  own. 

Now,  my  friends,  this  being  the  Christian  character,  I ask  you  to 
consider  the  second  part  of  my  proposition — namely,  that  the  Irish 
people  have  received  especial  grace  from  God  ; that  no  people  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth  have  been  so  thoroughly  formed  into  their 
national  character  as  the  Irish  by  the  divine  principles  of  the  Holy 
Catholic  religion  of  Jesus  Christ. 

How  are  we  to  know  the  national  character  ? Well,  my  friends, 
we  have  two  great  clues  or  means  of  knowing.  First  of  all,  we 
have  the  past  history  of  our  race,  and  the  tale  that  it  tells  us. 
Secondly,  we  have  the  men  of  to-day  (wherever  the  Irishman 
exists),  wherever  they  assemble  together  and  form  society,  and  the 
tale  that  that  society  tells  us  to-day. 

Let  us  first  consider  briefly  the  past  of  our  nation,  of  our  race, 
and  then  we  will  consider  the  Irishman  of  to-day.  Let  us  consider 
the  past  of  our  history  as  a race,  as  a nation,  the  history  of  faith, 
hope,  and  love  for  God.  Is  it  pre-eminently  such  a history  ? Is 
it  such  a history  of  Christianity,  faith,  hope,  and  love  that  no 
other  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth  can  equal  it  ? If  so,  I have 
proved  my  proposition.  Now,  exactly  one  thousand  and  sixty  years 
before  America  was  discovered  by  Columbus,  Patrick  the  apostle 
landed  in  Ireland.  The  nation  to  which  he  came  was  a most 
ancient  race,  derived  from  one  of  the  primeval  races  that  peopled 
the  earth — from  the  great  Phoenician  family  of  the  East.  They 
landed  in  the  remote  mists  of  prehistoric  times  upon  a green  isle 


726  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

in  the  western  ocean.  They  peopled  it ; they  colonized  it ; they 
established  laws ; they  opened  schools ; they  had  their  philosophy, 
their  learning,  their  science  and  art,  equal  to  that  of  any  other 
civilization  of  the  day.  They  were  a people  well  known,  in  their 
pagan  days,  to  the  ancient  Egyptians  and  the  ancient  Greeks.  The 
name  of  the  island — the  name  by  which  we  call  it  to-day — Erin, 
was  only  a name  that  came  after  the  more  ancient  name.  Eor  by 
the  Greeks  and  the  people  of  old,  hundreds  of  years  before  the 
birth  of  Christ,  our  Ireland  was  called  by  the  name  of  Oggia,  or 
“ the  most  ancient  land.”  It  was  spoken  of  by  the  most  remote 
authors  of  antiquity;  the  most  ancient  Greek  writers,  and  other 
authors  now  extant,  spoke  of  Ireland  as  the  far  distant  ocean  ; 
spoke  of  it  as  a place  of  wonderful  beauty,  as  a place  of  ineffable 
charm ; spoke  of  it  as  something  like  that  high  Elysium  of  the 
poet’s  dream  : “ An  island  rising  out  of  the  sea,  the  fairest  and 
most  beautiful  of  all  the  sea’s  productions.” 

We  know  that  our  ancestors  at  a most  remote  period  received 
another  colony  from  Spain.  We  know  that  the  Milesians  landed 
on  an  island  they  called  Innisfail,  their  “land  of  destiny.”  We 
know  that  they  came  from  the  fair  southern  sunny  land,  bringing 
with  them  high  valor,  mighty  hope,  generous  aspirations,  and  an 
advanced  degree  of  civilization;  and  the  original  inhabitants  of 
Ireland  intermingled  their  race  with  the  Milesians.  I11  that  inter- 
mingling was  formed  the  Celtic  constitution  which  divided  Ireland 
into  four  kingdoms,  all  united  under  a high  monarch  and  supreme 
king  (Ard-righ) — the  high-king  of  Ireland.  The  palace  of  Ireland’s 
king,  as  fitting,  was  built  almost  in  the  centre  of  the  island,  two 
miles  from  the  fatal  Boyne.  The  traveller  comes  through  a beauti- 
ful undulating  land  towards  the  hill-top,  rich  in  verdure,  abundant 
and  fruitful,  crowned  with  lovely  wood  on  every  side.  It  is  the 
plain  of  “royal  Meath.”  He  arrives  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The 
summit  of  that  hill  for  centuries  was  crowned  with  the  palace  of 
Ireland’s  kings.  It  was  called  in  the  language  of  the  people 
“ Tara  ” — the  palace  of  the  kings.  There,  on  Easter  Sunday  morn- 
ing, in  the  year  432,  early  in  the  fifth  century  of  the  Christian  era, 
a most  singular  sight  presented  itself.  Ireland’s  monarch  sat  upon 
his  throne  in  high  council ; around  him  were  the  sovereign  kings 
and  chieftains  of  the  nation  ; around  him  again  in  their  ranks  were 
the  pagan  priests — the  Druids  of  the  old  fire-worship ; around  him 
again,  on  either  side,  on  thrones  as  if  they  were  monarchs,  sat  the 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke , O.P. 


727 


magnificent  ancient  minstrels  of  Ireland,  with  snow-white  flow- 
ing beards,  their  harps  upon  their  knees,  filling  the  air  with  the 
glorious  melody  of  Ireland’s  music,  while  they  poured  out  upon  the 
wings  of  song  the  time-honored  story  of  Ireland’s  heroes  and  their 
glorious  kings. 

Suddenly  a shadow  fell  upon  the  threshold;  a man  appeared,  with 
mitre  on  head,  cope  on  shoulders,  and  a crosier  in  his  hand,  with 
the  cross  of  Christ  upon  it.  And  this  was  Patrick,  who  came  from 
Rome  to  preach  Christianity  to  the  Irish  kings,  chieftains,  and  peo- 
ple. They  received  him  as  became  a civilized  and  enlightened  peo- 
ple. They  did  not  stand,  like  other  nations,  in  a wild  hubbub  of 
barbarism  to  denounce  the  truth  as  soon  as  they  heard  it,  and  put 
the  truth-teller  and  the  messenger  to  death ; but  they  sat  down, 
these  kings,  these  minstrels,  these  judges  of  the  land,  these  most 
learned  philosophers ; they  disputed  with  Patrick ; they  brought 
the  keen  weapons  of  human  wisdom  and  of  human  intellect  to  bear 
against  that  sword  which  he  wielded.  Oh  ! it  was  the  sword  of  the 
spirit,  the  word  of  God — the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  And  when  at 
length  that  king  and  chieftains,  all  these  Druids  and  bards,  found 
that  Patrick  preached  a reasonable  religion,  that  Patrick  tried  to 
prove  his  religion  and  brought  conviction  unto  their  minds,  up  rose 
at  length  the  head  of  all  the  bards  and  of  Ireland’s  minstrels,  the 
man  next  in  authority  to  the  king,  the  sainted  Dubhac,  the  arch- 
minstrel  of  the  royal  monarch  of  Tara — up  rose  this  man  in  the 
might  of  his  intellect,  in  the  glory  of  his  voice  and  his  presence, 
and  lifting  up  his  harp  in  his  hand  he  said:  “ Hear  me,  0 high- 
king  and  chieftains  of  the  land  ! I now  declare  that  this  man  who 
comes  to  us  speaks  from  God — that  he  brings  a message  from  God. 
1 bow  before  Patrick’s  God.  He  is  the  true  God,  and  as  long  as  I 
live  this  harp  of  mine  shall  never  sound  again  save  to  the  praises  of 
Christianity  and  its  God.”  And  the  king  and  chieftains  and  bards 
and  warriors  and  judges  and  people  alike  rose  promptly ; and  never 
in  the  history  of  the  world — never  was  there  a people  that  so  em- 
braced the  light  and  took  it  into  their  minds,  took  into  their  hearts 
and  put  into  their  blood  the  light  of  Christianity  and  its  grace,  as 
Ireland  did  in  the  day  of  her  conversion.  She  did  not  ask  him  to 
shed  one  tear  of  sorrow.  She  rose  up,  put  her  hands  in  his  like  a 
friend,  took  the  message  from  his  lips,  surrounded  him  with  honor 
and  the  popular  veneration  of  all  the  people  ; and  before  he  died  he 
received  the  singular  grace — distinct  from  all  other  saints — that  he 


728 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


alone,  among  all  the  other  apostles  that  ever  preached  the  Gospel, 
found  a people  entirely  pagan  and  left  them  entirely  Christian. 

x\nd  now  began  that  wonderful  agency  of  Christian  faith,  Chris- 
tian hope,  and  Christian  love  which  I claim  to  have  formed  the 
national  character  of  my  race  as  revealed  in  their  history.  They 
took  the  faith  from  Patrick ; they  rose  at  once  into  the  full  perfec- 
tion of  that  divine  faith.  They  became  a nation  of  priests,  bishops, 
monks,  and  nuns  in  the  very  day  of  the  first  dawning  of  their 
Christianity.  The  very  men  whom  Patrick  ordained  priests,  and 
whom  he  consecrated  bishops,  where  the  men  whom  he  found 
pagans  in  the  land  to  which  he  preached  Christianity ; the  very 
women  whom  he  consecrated  to  the  divine  service,  putting  veils 
upon  their  heads — the  very  women  that  rose  at  once  under  his 
hand  to  he  the  light  and  glory  of  Ireland,  as  Ireland’s  womanhood 
has  been  from  that  day  to  this — were  the  maidens  and  mothers  of 
the  Irish  race  who  first  heard  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ  from  the 
lips  of  St.  Patrick. 

Well,  I need  not  tell  you  the  tlirice-told  tale  how  the  epoch  of  our 
national  history  seems  to  run  in  cycles  of  300  years.  For  300  years 
after  Patrick  preached  the  Gospel,  Ireland  was  the  holiest,  most 
learned,  most  enlightened,  most  glorious  country  in  Christendom. 
From  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  students  came  to  study  in  those 
Irish  schools ; they  came  not  by  thousands,  but  by  tens  of  thou- 
sands. They  brought  back  to  every  nation  in  Europe  the  wondrous 
tale  of  Ireland’s  sanctity,  of  Ireland’s  glory,  of  Ireland’s  peace,  of 
Ireland’s  melody,  of  the  holiness  of  her  people  and  the  devotion  of 
her  priesthood,  the  immaculate  purity  and  wonderful  beauty  of  the 
womanhood  of  Ireland. 

After  these  300  years  passed  away  began  the  first  great  effort  which 
proved  that  Catholic  faith  was  the  true  essence  of  the  Irish  charac- 
ter. The  Danes  invaded  Ireland,  and  for  300  long  years  every  year 
saw  fresh  arrivals,  fresh  armies  poured  in  upon  the  land ; and  for 
300  years  Ireland  was  challenged  to  fight  in  defence  of  her  faith, 
and  to  prove  to  the  world  that  until  the  Irish  race  and  the  Irish 
character  were  utterly  destroyed  that  this  Catholic  faith  never 
would  cease  to  exist  in  the  land.  The  nation — for,  thank  God,  in 
that  day  we  were  a nation  ! — the  nation  drew  the  nation’s  sword. 
Brightly  it  flashed  from  that  scabbard  when  it  had  rested  for  300 
years  in  Christian  peace  and  holiness.  Brightly  did  it  flash  from 
that  scabbard  in  the  day  that  the  Dane  landed  in  Ireland,  and  the 


Father  Thomas  N Burke , O.P.  729 

Celt  crossed  swords  with  him  for  country,  for  fatherland,  and,  much 
more,  for  the  altar,  for  religion,  and  for  God.  The  fight  went  on. 
Every  valley  in  the  land  tells  its  tale.  There  are  many  among  us 
who,  like  myself,  have  been  born  and  educated  in  the  old  country. 
What  is  more  common,  my  friends,  than  to  see  what  is  called  the 
old  “rath,”  or  mound,  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  some- 
times on  the  borders  of  a bog,  sometimes  on  the  hill-side — to  see  a 
great  mound  raised  up  ? The  people  will  tell  you  that  is  a “ rath,” 
and  Ireland  is  full  of  them.  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ? 
When  the  day  of  the  battle  was  over,  when  the  Danes  were  con- 
quered, and  their  bodies  were  strewn  in  thousands  on  the  field,  the 
Irish  gathered  them  together  and  made  a big  hole  into  which  they 
put  them,  and  heaped  them  up  into  a great  mound,  covered  them  with 
dirt,  and  dug  scraws,  or  sods,  and  covered  them.  In  every  quarter  of 
the  land  are  they  found.  What  do  they  tell  ? They  tell  this  : that  until 
the  day  of  judgment,  until  when  all  the  sons  of  men  shall  be  in  the 
valley  of  Jehosaphat,  no  man  will  be  able  to  tell  of  the  thousands, 
and  the  tens  of  thousands,  and  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
Danish  invaders  that  came  to  Ireland  only  to  find  a place  in  the 
grave — only  to  find  a grave.  Ah  ! gracious  God,  that  we  could  say 
the  same  of  every  invader  that  ever  polluted  the  virgin  soil  of  Erin ! 
Well  did  Brian  Boru  know  how  many  inches  of  Irish  land  it  took 
to  make  a grave  for  the  Dane.  Well  did  the  heroic  King  of  Meath 
— perhaps  a greater  character  than  even  Brian  himself,  or  O’Neill — 
Malachi  the  Second,  of  whom  the  poet  says,  he  “wore  the  collar  of 
gold  which  he  won  from  the  proud  invader,”  a man  who  with  his 
own  hand  slew  three  of  the  kings  and  leaders  and  warriors  of  the 
Danish  army — well  did  he  know  how  many  inches  of  Irish  soil  it 
took  to  bury  a Dane.  For  in  the  Valley  of  Glenamada,  in  Wick- 
low, on  a June  morning,  he  found  them,  and  he  poured  down  from 
the  hill-tops  with  his  Gaelic  and  Celtic  army  upon  them.  Before 
the  sun  set  over  the  Western  Ocean  to  America — then  undiscovered 
— there  were  6,000  Danes  stretched  dead  in  the  valley. 

Well,  my  friends,  300  years  of  war  passed  away.  Do  you  know 
what  it  means  ? Can  you  realize  it  to  yourselves  ? There  is  no  na- 
tion upon  the  face  of  the  earth  that  has  not  been  ruined  by  war. 
You  had  only  three  years  of  war  here  in  America,  and  you  know 
how  much  evil  it  did.  Just  fancy,  300  years  of  war  ! War  in 
every  county,  every  province,  every  valley  of  the  land,  war  every- 
where for  300  years  ! The  Irishman  had  to  sleep  with  a drawn 


73° 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


sword  under  his  pillow,  the  hilt  ready  to  his  hand,  and  ready  to 
spring  up  at  a moment’s  warning,  for  the  honor  of  his  wife,  for  the 
honor  of  his  daughter,  and  the  peace  of  his  household  and  the 
sacred  altar  of  Christ.  And  yet,  at  the  end  of  300  years,  two 
things  survived.  Ireland’s  Catholic  faith  was  as  fresh  as  it  ever 
■was,  and  Ireland’s  music  and  minstrelsy  was  as  luxuriant  and 
flourishing  in  the  land  as  if  the  whole  time  had  been  a time  of 
peace.  How  grand  a type  is  he  of  the  faith  and  genius  of  our  peo- 
ple, how  magnificent  a type  of  the  Irish  character — a man  of  eighty- 
three  years  of  age,  mounted  on  his  noble  horse,  clad  in  his  grand 
armor,  with  a battle-axe  in  one  uplifted  hand  and  the  crucifix  in 
the  other — the  heroic  figure  of  Brian  Boru,  as  he  comes  out  on 
the  pages  of  Irish  history  and  stands  before  us,  animating  his  Irish 
army  at  Clontarf,  telling  who  it  was  that  died  for  them,  and  who  it 
was  they  were  to  fight  for  ! Before  the  evening  sun  set,  Ireland,  like 
the  man  who  shakes  a reptile  off  his  hand,  shook  from  her  Chris- 
tian bosom  that  Danish  army  into  the  sea,  and  destroyed  them. 
Yet  Brian,  the  immortal  Monarch  and  King  of  Ireland,  was  as  skilled 
with  the  harp  as  he  was  with  the  battle-axe  ; and  in  the  rush  and 
heat  of  the  battle  no  man  stood  before  him  and  lived ; that  terrible 
mace  came  down  upon  him,  and  sent  him  either  to  Heaven  or  to  Hell. 
In  the  halls  of  Kincora,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Shannon,  when  all 
the  minstrels  of  Ireland  gathered  together  to  discuss  the  ancient 
melodies  of  the  land,  there  was  no  hand  that  could  bring  out  the 
thrill  of  the  gold  or  silver  chords  with  such  skill  as  the  aged  hand  of 
the  man  who  was  so  terrible  on  the  battle-field,  a Christian  warrior 
and  minstrel.  The  very  type  of  the  Irish  character  was  that  man 
who,  after  300  years  of  incessant  war,  led  the  Irish  forces  on  the 
field  of  Clontarf,  from  which  they  swept  the  Danes  into  the  sea. 

Then  came  another  300  years  of  invasion,  and  Ireland  again 
fights  for  her  nationality  until  the  sixteenth  century,  just  300  years 
ago,  and  then  she  was  told  that  after  fighting  for  nearly  400  years 
for  her  nationality  she  must  begin  and  fight  again,  not  only  for 
that,  but  for  her  altar  and  her  ancient  faith.  The  Danes  came 
back  ; they  came  to  Ireland  with  the  cry,  ie  Down  with  the  cross  ! 
Down  with  the  altar  ! ” Harry  the  Eighth  came  to  Ireland  with  the 
same  cry ; but  the  cross  and  the  altar  are  up  to-day  in  Ireland,  and 
Harry  the  Eighth,  I am  afraid,  is — [Here  Father  Burke  cast  his 
eyes  downwards]. 

Three  hundred  long  years  of  incessant  war,  with  400  years  before 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke , O.P. 


73i 


of  incessant  war,  making  the  Irish  people  1,000  years  engaged  in 
actual  warfare,  700  years  with  the  Saxon  and  300  years  before  that 
with  the  Danes  ! Where  is  the  nation  upon  the  face  of  the  earth 
that  has  fought  for  1,000  years  ? Why,  one  would  imagine  that 
they  would  all  be  swept  away  ! How  in  the  world  did  they  stand 
it  ? We  have  been  fighting  a thousand  years  ! the  battle  begun  by 
our  forefathers  has  been  continued  down — well,  down  to  the  year 
before  last.  The  sword  of  Ireland  that  was  drawn  a thousand 
years  ago,  at  the  beginning  of  the  ninth  century,  still  remains  out 
of  the  scabbard,  and  has  not  been  sheathed  down  to  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Did  ever  anybody  hear  the  like  ? And  yet 
here  we  are,  glory  be  to  God  ! Here  we  are  as  fresh  and  hearty  as 
Brian  Boru  on  the  morning  of  Clontarf,  or  as  Hugh  O’Neill  was  at 
the  Yellow  Ford,  or  as  Owen  Roe  O’Neill  was  at  the  field  of  Ben- 
burb,  or  as  Patrick  Sarsfield  was  in  the  trenches  of  Limerick,  or 
as  Robert  Emmet  in  the  dock  at  Green  Street. 

Now,  my  friends,  let  me  ask  you : What  did  the  Irish  people  fight 
for  during  600  years  ? For  300  years  they  fought  with  the  Danes  ; 
for  300  years  they  fought  with  England.  The  Danes  invaded  and 
desolated  the  whole  land ; the  English  three  times  since  Harry  the 
Eighth — taking  it  down  to  the  present — landed  in  Ireland  and 
spread  destruction  and  desolation  upon  it.  This  Irish  people  fought 
for  600  years.  What  did  they  fight  for  ? They  fought  for  600 
years  for  something  they  had  never  seen.  They  never  saw  Christ 
in  the  Blessed  Eucharist,  because  it  was  hidden  from  them  under 
the  sacramental  veils  of  bread  and  wine  ; they  never  saw  the  Mother 
of  the  God  of  Heaven  ; they  never  saw  the  saints  and  angels  of 
heaven ; they  never  saw  the  Saviour  upon  the  cross ; and  yet  for 
that  Christ  on  the  cross,  for  the  Saviour  in  the  Tabernacle,  and  for 
the  Mother  of  Purity  in  Heaven,  and  the  angels  and  saints,  they 
fought  these  600  years.  They  shed  their  blood  until  every  acre  of 
land  in  Ireland  was  red  with  the  blood  of  the  Irishman  that  was 
shed  for  his  religion  and  for  his  God. 

What  does  this  prove  ? Does  it  not  prove  that,  beyond  all  other 
races  and  nations,  the  Irish  character  was  able  to  realize  the  unseen, 
and  so  to  substantiate  the  things  of  faith  as  to  make  them  of  far 
greater  importance  than  liberty,  than  property,  than  land,  than  edu- 
cation, than  life  ? For  any  man  who  goes  out  and  says  : “1  am  ready 
to  give  up  every  inch  of  land  I possess ; I am  ready  to  go  into  exile  ; 
I am  ready  to  be  sold  as  a slave  in  Barbadoes ; I am  ready  to  be 


732 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


trampled  under  foot  or  to  die  for  Jesus  Christ,  who  is  present  now, 
though  I never  saw  him” — that  man  is  pre-eminently  a man  of 
faith.  The  Irish  nation  for  600  years  answered  the  Saxon  and 
Dane  thus:  “ We  will  fight  until  we  die  for  our  God  who  is  upon 
our  altars.”  Now,  I ask  you  to  find  among  the  nations  of  the  earth 
any  one  nation  that  was  ever  asked  to  suffer  confiscation  and  rob- 
bery and  exile  and  death  for  their  faith,  and  who  did  it,  like  one 
man,  for  600  years  ! When  you  have  found  that  nation,  when  you 
are  able  to  say  to  me  : “Such  a people  did  that,  and  such  another 
people  did  that,”  and  prove  it  to  me,  I will  give  up  what  I have 
said — namely,  that  the  Irish  are  the  most  formed  in  character  and 
in  their  faith  of  any  people  in  the  world.  As  soon  as  you  are 
able  to  prove  to  me  that  any  other  people  ever  stood  so  much  for 
their  faith,  I stand  corrected  ; but  until  you  prove  it,  I hold  that 
the  Irish  people  and  race  are  the  most  Catholic  on  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

Now,  my  friends,  if  I want  any  proof  of  the  Irish  faculty  of 
realizing  the  unseen,  why,  my  goodness  ! we  are  always  at  it.  The 
Irish  child,  as  soon  as  he  arrives  at  the  age  of  reason,  has  an  in- 
nate faculty  of  realizing  the  unseen.  When  he  comes  out  of  the 
back  door,  and  looks  into  the  field,  he  imagines  he  sees  a fairy  in 
every  bush.  If  he  sees  a butterfly  upon  a stalk  in  the  field*  he 
thinks  it  is  a Leprechctwn.  I remember,  when  a boy,  growing  up, 
studying  Latin,  having  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a priest.  I was  a 
grown  lad,  and  yet  there  was  a certain  old  archway  in  Bowling  Green, 
in  Galway,  to  which  there  was  attached  a tradition.  I know  there 
are  some  here  that  will  remember  it.  It  was  near  the  place  where 
Lynch,  the  mayor,  hanged  his  son,  hundreds  of  years  ago  ; near  the 
Protestant  churchyard,  and  that  gave  it  a bad  name.  At  any  rate, 
grown  as  I was,  learning  Latin,  knowing  everything  about  the  cate- 
chism, and  having  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a priest,  I was  never 
able  to  pass  under  that  arch  after  nightfall  without  running  for 
dear  life.  This  faith,  if  you  will — this  Irish  superstition,  is  a faith. 
Kemember  that  wherever  superstition — especially  of  a spiritual  cha- 
racter— exists  there  is  proof  that  there  is  a character  formed  to 
realize  the  Unseen. 

Now,  my  friends,  consider  the  next  great  impress  of  the  Christian 
character  stamped  upon  the  Irish  people.  The  apostle  says:  “ We 
are  saved  by  hope.”  The  principle  of  hope  imposes  confidence  in 
the  divine  promises  of  God,  in  the  certainty  of  their  fulfilment — a 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke , O.P. 


733 


confidence  never  shaken,  that  never  loses  itself,  that  never  loosens 
its  hold  upon  God,  that  never  for  an  instant  yields  to  depression  or 
despair.  I ask  you  if  that  virtue  is  found  stamped  upon  our  Irish 
character  ? Tell  me,  first  of  all,  as  I wish  to  prove  it,  during  this 
thousand  years’  fighting  for  Ireland  was  there  ever  a day  in  the 
history  of  our  nation  when  Ireland  lost  courage  and  struck  her 
flag  ? That  flag  was  never  pulled  down.  It  has  been  defeated  on 
many  a field  ; it  has  been  dragged  in  the  dust — in  the  dust  stained 
with  the  blood  of  Ireland’s  best  and  most  faithful  sons  ; it  has  been 
washed  in  the  accursed  waters  of  the  Boyne  ; but  never  has  the 
nation  for  a single  hour  hesitated  to  lift  that  prostrate  banner 
and  fling  it  out  to  the  breeze  of  heaven,  and  proclaim  that  Ireland 
was  still  full  of  hope. 

Scotland  had  as  glorious  a banner  as  ours.  The  Scotch  banner 
was  hauled  down  upon  the  plains  of  Culloden,  and  the  Scots,  chi- 
valrous as  their  fathers  were,  never  raised  that  flag  to  the  mast- 
head again;  it  has  disappeared.  It  is  no  longer  “ Ireland  and 
Scotland  and  England,”  as  it  used  to  be ; it  is  “ Great  Britain  and 
Ireland.”  Why  is  it  “ Great  Britain  and  Ireland”  ? Why  is  it 
not  simply  “Great  Britain”?  Why  is  the  sovereign  called  the 
“ Queen  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ” ? Because  Ireland  refused 
to  give  up  her  hope,  and  Ireland  never  acknowledged  that  she  was 
ever  anything  else  except  a nation.  Well,  my  friends,  it  was  that 
principle  of  hope  that  sustained  our  fathers  during  those  thousand 
years  they  kept  their  faith.  And  the  word  of  Scripture,  as  recorded 
in  the  book  of  Tobias,  is  this  : when  the  Jews  were  banished  into 
Babylonish  captivity — when  the  people  of  every  nation  came  to 
them  and  said,  “ Why  shonld  you  be  persecuted  on  account  of  your 
God  ? Give  him  up.  Why  do  you  refuse  to  conform  to  the  laws 
and  usages  of  the  people  around  you  ? Give  up  your  God.  Don’t 
be  making  fools  of  yourselves  ” — the  Jews  said  : “ Speak  not  so,  for 
we  are  the  children  of  the  saints  ; we  know  and  hope  in  our  God. 
He  never  forsakes  those  who  never  change  their  faith  in  him.” 
This  is  the  inspired  language  of  Scripture,  and  well  the  Irish  knew 
it ; and,  therefore,  as  long  as  Irishmen  kept  their  faith  to  their  God 
and  to  their  altar,  so  they  wisely  and  very  constantly  refused  to  lay 
down  their  hope. 

Christian  character  is  made  up  of  Hope  as  well  as  of  Faith  and  of 
Love.  If  Ireland  laid  down  her  hope  in  despair,  that  high  note  of 
Christian  character  would  never  be  in  her.  The  Irish  people  never 


734 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


knew  they  were  beaten.  Year  after  year,  one  day  out  and  another 
day  in,  while  the  nations  around  were  amazed  at  the  bull-dog  tena- 
city of  that  people  with  two  ideas — namely,  that  they  were  Catholic 
and  a nation— Ireland  never  lost  sight  of  her  hope.  What  followed 
from  this  ? What  was  the  consequence  of  this  ? Enshrined  in  the 
national  heart,  and  in  the  national  aims,  there  has  been — wherever 
the  Irishman  exists  there  has  been  the  glory  upon  his  head  of  the 
man  whose  courage  in  the  hour  of  danger  could  be  relied  upon. 
Every  nation  in  Europe  has  had  a taste  of  what  Ireland’s  courage  is. 
They  fought  in  the  armies  of  Germany,  in  those  Austrian  armies, 
where  ten  thousand  Irishmen  for  thirty  years  were  every  day  en- 
camped in  the  field.  They  fought  in  the  armies  of  Spain  ; ten  thou- 
sand Irishmen  encamped  in  the  field.  They  fought  in  the  armies,  once 
so  glorious,  of  Erance — thirty  thousand  Irishmen,  with  Patrick  Sars- 
field  at  their  head.  Did  they  ever  turn  their  backs  and  run  away  ? 
Kever.  At  the  battle  of  Eamillies,  when  the  French  were  beaten, 
and  they  were  flying  before  the  English,  the  English  in  the  heat  of 
their  pursuit  met  a division  of  the  French  army.  Ah  ! that  division 
was  the  Irish  Brigade.  They  stopped  them  in  the  full  tide  of  their 
victory,  and  they  drove  them  back  and  took  the  colors  out  of  their 
hands,  and  marched  off  after  the  French  army.  If  any  of  you  go  to 
Europe,  it  will  be  worth  your  while  to  go  to  an  old  Flemish  town 
called  Ypres.  In  the  cathedral  you  will  find  flags  and  banners 
lying  about.  If  you  will  ask  the  sexton  to  explain  these  flags  to 
you  (perhaps  you  will  have  to  give  him  a sixpence),  he  will  come  to 
one  of  these  flags  and  say,  “ That  was  the  banner  that  the  Irish  took 
from  the  English  in  the  very  hour  of  their  victory  at  Eamillies.  ” 
King  Louis  was  going  to  turn  and  fly  at  the  battle  of  Fontenoy,  but 
Marshal  Saxe  told  him  to  wait  for  five  minutes  until  he  should  see 
more.  “ Your  majesty,  don’t  be  in  such  a hurry  ; wait  a minute; 
it  will  be  time  enough  to  run  away  when  the  Irish  run.”  Calling 
out  to  Lord  Clare,  he  said : “ There  are  your  men,  and  there  are 
the  Saxons.”  The  next  moment  there  was  a hurra  heard  over  the 
field.  In  the  Irish  language  they  cried  out,  ‘‘  Eemember  Limerick, 
and  down  with  the  Sassenach  ! ” That  column  of  Englishmen 
melted  before  the  charge  of  the  Irish  just  as  the  snow  melts  in  a 
ditch  when  the  sun  shines  upon  it.  When  a man  loses  hope  he 
loses  courage  ; he  gives  it  up.  “ It  is  a bad  job,”  he  says  ; “ there 
is  no  use  going  on  any  further.”  But  as  long  as  he  can  keep  his 
courage  up,  with  the  lion  in  his  heart,  so  long  you  may  be  sure  there 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke , O.P. 


735 


is  some  grand  principle  of  hope  in  him.  Ours  is  a race  that  lias 
almost  “hoped  against  hope.”  I say  that  comes  from  our  Catholic 
religion — the  Catholic  religion  that  tells  us  : “You  arc  down  to-day, 
don’t  be  afraid ; hold  on  ; lean  upon  your  God.  You  will  be  up 
to-morrow.” 

The  third  grand  feature  of  the  Christian  is  Love — a love  both 
strong  and  tender  ; a love  that  first  finds  its  vent  in  God,  with  all 
of  the  energies  of  the  spirit  and  the  heart  and  soul  going  straight  to 
God,  crushing  aside  whatever  is  in  its  path  of  the  temptations  for 
men,  and  in  faith  and  hope  and  love  making  straight  for  God. 
Trampling  upon  his  passions,  the  man  of  love  goes  straight  towards 
God ; and  in  that  journey  to  God  he  will  allow  nothing  to  hinder 
him.  No  matter  what  sacrifice  that  God  calls  upon  him  to  make, 
he  is  ready  to  make  it ; for  the  principle  of  sacrifice  is  divine  love. 
Most  assuredly,  never  did  her  God  call  upon  Erin  for  a sacrifice  that 
Erin  did  not  make  it. 

God  sent  to  Ireland  the  messenger  of  his  wrath,  the  wretched 
Elizabeth.  She  called  upon  Ireland  for  Ireland’s  liberty  and  Ire- 
land’s land,  and  the  people  gave  up  both  rather  than  forsake  their 
God.  God  sent  Ireland  another  curse  in  Oliver  Cromwell,  a man 
upon  whom  I would  not  lay  an  additional  curse  for  any  considera- 
tion, because  for  a man  to  lay  an  additional  curse  on  Oliver  Crom- 
well would  be  like  throwing  an  additional  drop  of  water  on  a 
drowned  rat.  Cromwell  called  upon  the  Irish  people,  and  said  : 
“Become  Protestant  and  you  will  have  your  land;  you  will  have 
your  possessions,  your  wealth.  Kemain  Catholic  and  take  your 
choice — ‘Hell  or  Connaught.’”  Ireland  made  the  sacrifice,  and 
on  the  25th  day  of  May,  1651,  every  Catholic  supposed  to  be  in  Ire- 
land crossed  the  Shannon,  and  went  into  the  wild  wastes  of  Con- 
naught rather  than  give  up  his  faith. 

William  of  Orange  came  to  Ireland,  and  he  called  upon  the  Irish 
to  renounce  their  faith  or  submit  to  a new  persecution — new  penal 
laws.  Ireland  said  : “ I will  fight  against  injustice  as  long  as  I can  ; 
but  when  the  arm  of  the  nation  is  paralyzed,  and  I can  no  longer 
wield  the  sword,  one  thing  I will  hold  in  spite  of  death  and  hell, 
and  that  is  my  glorious  Catholic  faith.”  If  they  had  not  loved  God, 
would  they  have  done  this  ? Would  they  have  suffered  this  ? If 
they  did  not  prize  that  faith,  would  they  have  preferred  it  to  their 
liberty,  their  wealth,  and  their  very  lives  ? No,  no  ! Patrick  sent 
the  love  of  God  and  the  Virgin  Mother  deep  into  the  hearts  of  the 


73 6 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland.  ' 

Irish,  and  in  our  Irish  spirit  and  in  the  blood  of  the  nation  it  has 
remained  to  this  day.  Wherever  an  Irishman  true  to  his  country, 
true  to  his  religion,  exists,  there  do  you  find  a lover  of  Jesus  Christ 
and  of  Mary. 

More  than  this,  their  love  for  their  neighbor  shows  this  in  two 
magnificent  ways — the  fidelity  of  the  Irish  husband  to  the  Irish 
wife,  the  Irish  son  to  the  Irish  father  and  mother,  and  of  the  Irish 
father  to  his  children.  Where  is  there  a nation  in  whom  those  traits 
are  more  magnificently  brought  out  ? England  told  Ireland,  a few 
years  ago,  that  the  Irish  husbands  might  divorce  their  Irish  wives. 
Nothing  was  heard  from  one  end  of  the  land  to  the  other  but  a loud 
shout  of  a laugh.  “ Oh  ! listen  to  that.  So  a man  can  separate 
from  his  wife.  The  curse  of  Cromwell  on  you  ! ” 

England  told  the  fathers  of  Ireland  that  it  was  a felony  to  send 
their  children  to  school.  And  yet  never  did  the  Irish  fathers  neglect 
that  sacred  duty  of  education.  When,  actually,  it  was  found  that  a 
man  was  sending  his  children  to  school,  he  was  liable  to  a fine  and 
imprisonment.  In  spite  of  the  imprisonment  and  the  fine  of  their 
people,  the  Irish  people,  who  never  have  been  serfs,  refused  to  be  the 
servants  of  ignorance,  and  Ireland  was  always  an  educated  nation. 
In  the  worst  day  of  our  persecution — in  the  worst  day  of  our  misery 
— there  was  one  man  that  was  always  respected  in  the  land  next  to 
the  priest,  and  that  was  the  “poor  scholar/’  with  a few  books  under 
his  arm,  with  perhaps  three  halfpence  worth  of  clothes  upon  him, 
going  from  one  farm-house  to  the  other,  with  a “ God  save  all 
here  ! ” He  got  the  best  in  the  house,  the  best  bed,  the  cosiest 
place  in  the  straw  chair.  And  the  children  were  all  called  in  from 
the  neighboring  houses  and  from  the  village.  He  could  spend  a week 
from  one  house  to  another.  Every  house  in  Ireland  was  turned  into 
a sliool-house  at  one  time  or  another.  Hence  I have  known  men, 
old  men  of  my  own  family,  who  remembered  1782.  I have  seen  them, 
when  a child,  in  their  old  age,  and  these  men  brought  up  in  those  days 
of  penal  persecution  and  misery,  with  its  enforced  ignorance,  were 
first-class  controversialists.  They  knew  how  to  read  and  write ; they 
knew  Dr.  Gallagher’s  sermons  by  heart.  There  was  no  Protestant 
bishop  or  Protestant  minister  in  Ireland  that  could  hold  his  ground 
five  minutes  before  them  ; and  the  probability  was  that  after  having 
convinced  his  reason  and  opened  his  eyes  to  the  truth,  they  were 
equally  prepared  to  blacken  both  his  eyes  ! 

The  nation’s  love,  the  people’s  love  for  that  which  was  next  to 


Father  Thomas  N.  Burke , O.P. 


737 


their  God,  the  very  next,  is  the  love  of  a man  for  his  country.  Is 
there  any  land  so  loved  as  Ireland  by  its  people  ? Sarsfield,  dying, 
upon  the  plains  of  Landen,  is  only  a fair  type  of  the  ordinary  Irish- 
man. There  was  many  a good  man,  as  heroic  a man,  in  the  ranks 
of  the  Irish  Brigade  that  fell  that  day  as  Sarsfield,  who,  in  full  ca- 
reer of  victory,  at  the  head  of  Lord  Clare’s  Dragoons,  following  the 
British  army  as  they  fled  from  him,  William  of  Orange  in  their 
ranks  flying  and  showing  the  broad  of  his  back  to  Sarsfield,  as, 
sword  in  hand,  gleaming  like  the  sword  of  God’s  justice,  the  Irish 
hero  was  in  full  chase,  when  a musket-ball  struck  him  to  the  heart, 
and  he  fell  dying  from  his  horse.  The  blood  was  welling  out  hot 
from  his  very  heart ; he  took  the  full  of  his  hand  of  his  heart’s  blood, 
and,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  cried  : “ Oh  ! that  this  was  shed 
for  Ireland.”  A true  Irishman  ! Where  was  the  nation  that  was 
ever  so  loved  ? In  the  three  hundred  years  of  persecution,  take  the 
et  Bhreathair,”  the  old  Irish  friar,  the  Dominicans  and  Francis- 
cans, who  were  of  the  first  families  of  the  land — the  O’Neills,  the 
Maguires,  the  McDonnells,  the  McDermotts,  down  in  Galway ; the 
Frenches,  the  Lynches,  the  Blakes,  and  the  Burkes.  These  fair 
youths  used  to  be  actually  smuggled  out  by  night  and  sent  off  the 
coast  of  Ireland  to  Rome,  to  France,  and  to  Spain,  to  study  there. 
Enjoying  all  the  delicious  climates  of  those  lovely  countries,  sur- 
rounded by  honor,  leading  easy  lives,  filling  the  time  with  the  study 
and  intellectual  pleasures  of  the  priesthood,  every  man  felt  uneasy. 
To  use  the  old  familiar  phrase,  “They  were  like  a hen  on  a hot 
griddle,”  as  long  as  they  were  away  from  Ireland,  although  they 
knew  that  in  Ireland  they  were  liable  to  be  thrown  into  prison  or  be 
subjected  to  death.  During  Cromwell’s  persecution,  if  one  fell  in 
the  ranks,  another  stepped  into  his  place.  Of  six  hundred  Domini- 
cans in  Ireland  at  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  there  were  only 
four  remained  after  she  passed  her  mild  hand  over  them.  Where 
did  they  come  from  ? From  out  of  the  love  of  Ireland  and  the 
heart  and  blood  of  her  best  sons.  They  would  not  be  satisfied 
with  honors  and  dignities  in  other  lands.  No.  Their  hearts  were 
hungry  until  they  caught  sight  of  the  green  soil  and  stood  among 
the  shamrocks  once  more. 

And  now  I say  to  you,  and  all  the  history  of  our  nation  proves 
it — I say  that  the  Irish  race  to-day  is  not  one  bit  unlike  the  race  of 
two  or  three  hundred  years  ago.  We  are  the  same  people  ; and  why 
should  we  not  be?  We  have  their  blood;  we  have  their  names. 


73  8 The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 

their  faith,  their  traditions,  their  love.  I ask  you,  Is  not  the  Irish- 
man of  to-day  a man  of  faith,  hope,  and  love  ? Who  built  this 
beautiful  church  ? Who  erected  this  magnificent  altar  ? Who  made 
the  place  for  Father  Mooney’s  1 voice,  pleasantly  tinged  with  the  old 
Irish  roll  and  brogue  ? He  has  a little  touch  of  it,  and  he  is  not 
ashamed  of  it.  I remember  once  when  a lady  in  England  said  to 
me:  u The  moment  you  spoke  to  me,  Father,  I at  once  perceived 
you  were  an  Irishman;  you  have  got  what  they  call  the  brogue. ” 
“ Yes,  madam,”  said  I,  “ my  father  had  it,  and  my  mother  had  it ; 
but  my  grandfather  and  my  grandmother  did  not  have  it;  because 
they  did  not  speak  the  English  at  all.”  “Yes,”  I said,  “ I have 
the  brogue;  and  I am  full  of  hope  that  when  my  soul  comes  to 
heaven’s  gate,  and  I ask  St.  Peter  to  admit  me,  I think  when  he 
hears  the  touch  of  the  brogue  on  my  tongue  he  will  let  me  in.” 
But  I ask  who  has  built  this  church  ? who  has  covered  America 
with  our  glorious  Catholic  churches  ? All  credit  and  honor  to  every 
Catholic  race.  All  honor  and  credit  to  the  Catholic  Frenchman 
and  to  the  Catholic  German.  The  Germans  of  this  country,  those 
brave  men,  those  sons  of  Catholics,  those  descendants  of  the  great 
Roman  emperors  that  upheld  for  so  many  centuries  the  sceptre  in 
defence  of  the  altar — they  have  done  great  things  in  this  country  ; 
but,  my  friends,  it  is  Ireland,  after  all,  that  has  done  the  lion’s 
share  of  it.  What  brought  the  Irishman  to  America,  so  bright,  so 
cheerful,  so  full  of  hope  ? The  undying  hope  that  was  in  him  ; 
the  confidence  that,  wherever  he  went,  as  long  as  he  was  a true  Ca- 
tholic, and  faithful  to  the  traditions  of  the  Church  to  which  he  be- 
longs, and  to  the  nation  from  which  he  sprang,  that  the  hand  of 
God  would  help  him  and  bring  him  up  to  the  surface,  sooner  or 
later.  And  the  Irishman  of  to-day,  like  his  nation,  is  as  hopeful  as 
any  man  in  the  past  time. 

Have  we  not  a proof  of  their  love  ? Ah  ! my  friends,  who  is  it 
that  remembers  the  old  father  and  mother  at  home  ? Who,  among 
the  emigrants  and  strangers  coming  to  this  land,  whose  eye  fills 
with  the  ready  tear  as  soon  as  he  hears  the  familiar  voice  reminding 
us  of  those  long  in  their  graves,  as  soon  as  their  names  are  men- 
tioned ? Who  is  it  that  is  only  waiting  to  earn  his  first  ten  dollars 
in  order  to  send  five  home  to  his  aged  father  and  mother  ? Who  is 
it  that  would  as  soon  think  of  cutting  out  his  tongue  from  the 
roots  or  to  take  the  eyes  out  of  his  head  as  abandon  the  wife  of  his 

1 The  pastor  of  St.  Bridget’s  Church,  New  York,  in  which  this  lecture  was  delivered. 


Father  Thomas  N Burke , O.P. 


739 


bosom  ? The  true  Catholic  Irishman.  These  things  are  matters  of 
observation  and  experience,  just  as  the  past  is  a matter  of  history. 
And  therefore  I say  that  you  and  I are  not  ashamed  of  the  men  that 
are  in  their  graves,  even  though  they  lie  in  martyr  graves.  As  we 
are  true  to  them,  so  shall  our  children  be  true  to  us.  As  we 
were  true  to  them,  so  we  shall  continue  to  be  true  to  them. 
That  is  the  secret  of  Ireland’s  power  for  the  faith  that  has  never 
changed,  the  hope  that  never  despairs,  the  fove  that  is  never  extin- 
guished ; I say  the  secret  of  Ireland’s  power  is  this  mighty  love 
that  lifts  itself  up  to  God.  Dispersed  and  scattered  as  we  are,  that 
love  that  makes  all  meet  as  brethren ; that  love  that  brings  the  tear 
to  the  eye  at  the  mention  of  the  old  soil ; that  love  that  makes  one 
little  word  of  Irish  ring  like  music  in  our  ears  ; that  love  that  makes 
us  treasure  the  traditions  of  our  history ; that  love  makes  us  a power 
still ; and  we  are  a power,  though  divided  by  three  thousand  miles 
of  Atlantic  Ocean’s  waves  rolling  between  America  and  Ireland  at 
home.  But  the  Irishman  in  America  knows  that  his  brother  at 
home  looks  to  him  with  hope,  and  the  Irishman  in  Ireland  knows 
that  his  brother  in  America  is  only  waiting  to  do  what  he  can  for 
the  old  land. 

What  is  it  you  can  do  ? That  is  the  question.  I answer,  be  true 
to  your  religion,  be  true  to  your  fatherland,  be  true  to  your  families 
and  yourselves,  be  true  to  the  glorious  Republic  that  opened  her 
arms  to  receive  you  and  give  you  the  rights  of  citizenship.  Be  true 
to  America ; she  has  already  had  a sample  of  what  kind  of  men  she 
received  when  she  opened  her  arms  to  the  Irish,  They  gave  her  a 
taste  of  it  at  Fredericksburg,  fighting  her  battles  ; they  gave  her  a 
sample  of  it  all  through  those  terrible  campaigns ; she  knows  what 
they  are  and  begins  to  prize  it.  Never  fear,  when  you  add  to  your 
Irish  brains  and  intellect  by  education,  and  to  your  Irish  minds  by 
temperance,  and  to  your  Irish  hands  by  the  spirit  of  industry  and 
self-respect.  Be  men.  Even  in  this  land,  I say,  be  Irishmen.  Then 
the  day  will  come  when  this  great  Irish  element  in  America  will 
enter  largely  into  the  council-chambers  of  this  great  nation,  and 
will  shape  her  policy,  will  form  her  ideas  and  her  thoughts  in  a 
great  measure,  pressing  them  in  the  strong  mould  of  catholicity  and 
of  justice.  And  when  that  day  comes  to  us  I would  like  to  see  who 
would  lay  a “ wet  finger  ” on  Ireland.  This  is  what  I mean  when  I 
tell  you  what  Ireland  hopes  from  America.  Ireland’s  bone  and 
sinew  is  in  America,  and  it  is  in  the  intelligence  of  her  children  in 


740 


The  Prose  a7id  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


America,  and  of  every  principal  virtue  to  the  influence  that  we  attach 
to  that  virtue,  and  that  enlightenment,  and  to  that  intelligence  and 
talent,  that  will  assuredly  bring  in  this  country  the  help  that  Ire- 
land looks  for. 

Suppose  that  for  Ireland  some  coercion  hill  is  going  to  pass,  and 
some  blackguard  is  going  to  trample  upon  the  old  nation.  If  the 
Irishman  knows  the  position  of  his  countrymen  in  America,  he  will 
say,  “ Hold  on,  my  friend ; don’t  begin  until  you  get  a despatch 
from  Washington.”  “Hold  on,  my  friend;  there  are  Irish  Sena- 
tors in  the  great  Senate  ; there  are  Irish  Congressmen  in  the  great 
Congress ; there  are  Irishmen  in  the  Cabinet ; there  are  Irishmen 
behind  the  guns  ; there  are  Irishmen  writing  out  political  warnings 
and  protocols ; there  are  Irish  ambassadors  at  the  foreign  courts ; 
learn  what  they  have  to  say  before  you  trample  upon  us.  ” This  is 
what  I mean.  I speak  from  this  altar  as  a priest  and  an  Irishman. 
I am  not  afraid  to  say  it.  I don’t  care  if  it  went  under  the  very 
nose  of  Queen  Victoria  and  Judge  Keogh. 

And  now,  my  friends,  you  know  that,  whatever  way  a priest  may 
begin  his  lecture,  when  he  goes  through  it  he  always  ends  with  a 
kind  of  exhortation.  In  the  name  of  Cod,  let  us  make  a resolution 
here  to-night  to  be  all  that  I have  described  to  you — all  an  Irish- 
man ought  to  be — and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 


MISCELLANY 


T was  our  earnest  desire  to  make  this  Miscellany  much  fuller, 


hut  the  volume  has  already  so  grown  on  our  hands  that  the  in- 
tended number  of  pages  is  now  reached,  and  we  are  reluctantly 
forced,  at  least  in  the  present  edition,  to  omit  many  a poetical 
“ thing  of  beauty  ” which  we  had  carefully  culled  from  the  wide, 
rich,  and  blooming  field  of  Irish  literature. 


Samuel  Lover  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1797,  and  died  in  1868.  He  wrote  some 
excellent  songs  and  sketches  ; but,  as  a whole,  his  writings  are  not  of  a very  high 
order.  “ The  Angel’s  Whisper  ” is  the  most  exquisite  thing  that  ever  came  from 
his  pen. 


A beautiful  belief  prevails  in  Ireland  that  when  a child  smiles  in  its  sleep  it  is  “ talk- 
ing with  the  angels.”  This  is  but  one  trait  of  the  wonderfully  spiritual  nature  of  the  Irish 
people. 


A baby  was  sleeping,  its  mother  was  weeping, 

For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging  sea ; 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling  round  the  fisherman’s  dwelling, 
And  she  cried,  “ Dermot  darling,  oh  ! come  back  to  me.” 

Her  beads  while  she  number’d  the  baby  still  slumber’d, 

And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee. 

“ Oh  ! blest  be  that  warning,  my  child,  thy  sleep  adorning; 

For  I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee.” 

“ And  while  they  are  keeping  bright  watch  o’er  thy  sleeping, 
Oh  ! pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me, 

And  say  thou  wouldst  rather  they’d  watch  o’er  thy  father; 
For  I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee.” 

The  dawn  of  the  morning  saw  Dermot  returning, 

And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe’s  father  to  see, 

And,  closely  caressing  her  child  with  a blessing, 

Said  “1  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with  thee.” 


SAMUEL  LOVER. 


THE  ANGEL’S  WHISPER. 


742  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 

Foe  over  a third  of  a century  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  has  been  one  of  the  most 
prominent  men  in  Ireland.  He  has  made  his  mark  in  both  literature  and  poli- 
tics. Some  years  ago  Mr.  Duffy  was  knighted. 

A LAY  SERMON. 

Brother,  do  you  love  your  brother  ? 

Brother,  are  you  all  you  seem  ? 

Do  you  live  for  more  than  living  ? 

Has  your  life  a law  and  scheme  ? 

Are  you  prompt  to  bear  its  duties 
As  a braVe  man  may  beseem  ? 

Brother,  shun  the  mist  exhaling 
From  the  fen  of  pride  and  doubt ; 

Neither  seek  the  house  of  bondage 
Walling  straitened  souls  about — 

Bats  ! who  from  their  narrow  spy-hole 
Cannot  see  a world  without. 

Anchor  in  no  stagnant  shallow  ; 

Trust  the  wide  and  wondrous  sea. 

Where  the  tides  are  fresh  for  ever. 

And  the  mighty  currents  free  ; 

There,  perchance,  0 young  Columbus  ! 

Your  new  world  of  truth  may  be. 

Favor  will  not  make  deserving, 

(Can  the  sunshine  brighten  clay  ?) 

Slowly  must  it  grow  to  blossom, 

Fed  by  labor  and  delay, 

And  the  fairest  bud  of  promise 
Bears  the  taint  of  quick  decay. 

You  must  strive  for  better  guerdons. 

Strive  to  be  the  thing  you’d  seem ; 

Be  the  thing  that  God  hath  made  you, 

Channel  for  no  borrowed  stream ; 

He  hath  lent  you  mind  and  conscience, 

See  you  travel  in  their  beam  ! 


Miscellany . 


743 


See  you  scale  life’s  misty  highlands 
By  this  light  and  flowing  truth, 

And  with  bosom  braced  with  labor, 

Breast  them  in  your  manly  youth  ; 

So,  when  age  and  care  have  found  you. 
Shall  the  downward  path  be  smooth. 

Fear  not  on  that  rugged  highway, 

Life  may  want  its  lawful  zest ; 

Sunny  glens  are  in  the  mountain. 

Where  the  weary  feet  may  rest, 

Cooled  in  streams  that  gush  for  ever 
From  a loving  mother’s  breast. 

“ Simple  heart  and  simple  pleasures,” 

So  they  write  life’s  golden  rule. 

Honor  won  by  supple  baseness. 

State  that  crowns  a cankered  fool. 

Gleam  as  gleam  the  gold  and  purple 
On  a hot  and  rancid  pool. 

Wear  no  show  of  wit,  or  science, 

But  the  gems  you’ve  won  and  weighed  ; 

Thefts,  like  ivy  on  a ruin. 

Make  the  rifts  they  seem  to  shade  ; 

Are  you  not  a thief  and  beggar 
In  the  rarest  spoils  arrayed  ? 

Shadows  deck  a sunny  landscape, 

Making  brighter  all  the  bright ; 

So,  my  brother,  care  and  danger 
On  a loving  nature  light, 

Bringing  all  its  latent  beauties 
Out  upon  the  common  sight. 

Love  the  things  that  God  created, 

Make  your  brother’s  need  your  care  ; 

Scorn  and  hate  repel  God’s  blessings, 

But  where  love  is  they  are  there. 

As  the  moonbeams  light  the  waters. 
Leaving  rock  and  sandbank  bare. 


741  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

Thus,  my  brother,  grow  and  flourish, 
Fearing  none  and  loving  all ; 

For  the  true  man  needs  no  patron. 

He  shall  climb  and  never  crawl. 

Two  things  fashion  their  own  channel — 
The  strong  man  and  the  waterfall. 


JOHN  SAVAGE,  LL.D. 

John  Savage  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  1828.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
active  of  the  “Young  Ireland ” leaders  of  ’48,  but  succeeded  in  escaping  to 
America  the  same  year.  For  nearly  thirty  years  Mr.  Savage’s  graceful  pen  has 
not  been  idle.  As  a poet  he  ranks  high.  His  chief  works  are  : “ Ninety-eight 
and  Forty-eight,”  “The  Life  of  Andrew  Johnson,”  “Sibyl,”  a tragedy,  and 
“Poems,  Lyrical  and  Dramatic,”  lately  published  in  one  volume.  In  1875 
St.  John’s  College,  Fordham,  N.  Y.,  conferred  upon  him  the  honorary  degree 
of  LL.D. 


MINA. 

Mina’s  eyes  are  dark  as  sorrow, 

Mina’s  eyes  are  bright  as  morrow — 

Morrow  symbols  hope  alway — 

And  a soul-lit  radiance  flashes 
Out  between  their  silken  lashes 
As  from  out  the  sable  fringes  of  the  midnight  leaps  the  day. 

Mina’s  hair  is  black  as  madness, 

Mina’s  hair  is  soft  as  gladness — 

Gladness,  true,  is  soft  and  low — 

And  its  heavy  richness  ponders 
O’er  her  brow  as  student  wanders 
By  some  bardic  temple,  wordless  with  the  homage  he’d  bestow. 

Mina’s  brow  as  clear  as  amber, 

Mina’s  brow  as  calm  as  slumber, 

Where  God  lives  in  what  seems  dead, 

And  its  gentleness  is  giving 
E’er  a mute  excuse  for  living 

On  in  passive  grandeur,  careless  of  the  fame  its  thoughts  might 
spread. 


Miscellany . 


745 


Mina’s  mouth  is  ripe  as  study, 

Mina’s  mouth  is  full  and  ruddy, 

Tempting  as  the  August  peach, 

And  its  sweet  contentment,  routing 
Off  a melancholy  pouting, 

Welcomes  laughter  to  the  portals  where  the  trivial  ne’er  can  reach. 


Mina’s  heart  as  pure  as  childhood, 

Mina’s  heart  as  fresh  as  wild  wood, 

Where  each  tendril  dials  God, 

And  its  radiant  blessings,  centred 
On  her  face,  have  ever  entered 

Through  her  eyes  those  happy  mortals  who  within  their  mission 
trod. 


Mina’s  hand  is  sure  to  capture ! 

Mina’s  touch  is  weird,  its  rapture 
Is  electric,  seeming  numb. 

And  her  spirit  on  the  minute 
Thrills  you  with  the  calm  joy  in  it, 

And,  vibrating  you  to  eloquence,  compels  you  to  be  dumb. 


A NEW  LIFE. 

Is  it  fancy  ? am  I dreaming  ? 

Do  I tread  the  realms  of  faery  ? 

Do  my  hopings  mock  my  wild  heart  with  the  echoes  of  itself  ? 
Is  my  soul  lit  by  the  beaming 
Of  your  radiant  face,  fair  Lilia  ? 

Or  am  I witched  like  pilgrim  by  the  lagoon’s  midnight  elf  ? 

Sweet  words  are  singing  o’er  me, 

And  beside  me  and  before  me. 

Yet  I fear  to  think  them  truthful  lest  I wake  to  find  me  wrong. 
And  the  bliss  of  the  first  minute 
When  my  heart  caught  them  within  it 
Would  woo  me  to  eternal  sleep  to  ever  dream  such  song. 


746  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

God  is  loving,  God  is  jealous, 

And  we’re  ever  mortal  fashioned 
In  the  likeness  of  the  Moulder,  and  our  sympathies  so  bent  ; 

Can  my  words  be  over  zealous, 

Or  my  love  be  too  impassioned  ? 

No ; I cannot  outstrip  nature,  though  I fail  to  be  content. 

I have  had  my  dreams  of  glory, 

And  have  quaffed  my  youthful  chalice  ; 

What  bitter  dregs  lay  thickening  underneath  its  starry  foam 
And  my  life  broke  like  the  story 
Of  that  Oriental  palace 

Whose  magic  marble  fabric  sank  and  left  no  trace  of  home. 

In  my  thoughts’  dim,  lonely  prison, 

Where  I dwelt,  a voice  has  risen, 

As  the  angels  unto  Peter,  giving  comfort,  hope,  and  cheer. 

And  so  full  of  light’s  the  tremor — 

It  now  pulses  through  the  dreamer — 

He’d  bless  the  thought  that  chains  him  to  have  that  angel  near. 

Was  your  heart  as  sympathetic 
That  it  caught  my  words  unspoken 
As  they  welled  up,  seeking  utterance,  love-confused  to  very  fear  ? 
Was  it  you  that  said,  “ I love  thee,” 

Was  it  I that  said  “I  love  thee,” 

Or  did  we  each  the  other’s  heart  unburden  to  the  ear  ? 

When  you  twined  your  arms  about  me, 

Saying  life  was  dark  without  me ; 

That  I was  the  one  comforter  you  prayed  of  God  to  give ; 

That  among  the  thousands  fleeing 
Past  you  knew  me  as  that  being. 

My  heart  beneath  the  revelation  paused  to  say,  “ I live.” 

There’s  a strange  new  life  upon  me, 

With  a clarion- toned  suffusion 

Of  joy  that  cannot  sound  itself  with  words  of  mortal  speech  ; 
But  it  is  no  fancy  won  me, 

No  mere  student-bred  delusion, 

’Tis  thy  vatic  words  that  make  a dual  future  in  my  reach. 


Miscellany. 


7 47 


What  a bounteously  decreeing 
Gift  hath  love  when  it,  receiving 
Love  for  love,  transfigures  us  to  things  undreamed  before  ! 
Now  I’ve  two  lives  in  my  being, 

You  have  two  lives  in  your  living. 

And  yet  we  have  but  one  dear  life  between  us  evermore. 

BREASTING  THE  WORLD. 

Many  years  have  burst  upon  my  forehead. 

Years  of  gloom  and  heavy-freighted  grief, 

And  I have  stood  them  as  against  the  horrid. 
Angry  gales,  the  Peak  of  Teneriffe. 

Yet  if  all  the  world  had  storm  and  sorrow, 

You  had  none,  my  better  self,  Lenore  ; 

My  toil  was  as  the  midnight  seeking  morrow. 

You,  moon-like,  lit  the  way  I struggled  o’er. 

Though  as  a cataract  my  soul  went  lashing 
Itself  through  ravines  desolate  and  gray, 

You  make  me  see  a beauty  in  the  flashing, 

And  with  your  presence  diamonded  the  spray. 

Then,  Lenore,  though  we  have  grown  much  older. 
Though  your  eyes  were  brighter  when  we  met, 

Still  let  us  feel  shoulder  unto  shoulder 
And  heart  to  heart,  above  the  world  yet ! 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  born  in  the  county  of  Meath,  Ireland,  in  1844. 
After  a bold,  eventful,  and  somewhat  romantic  career,  he  came  to  the  United 
States  in  1869.  He  has  published  “ Songs  from  the  Southern  Seas.”  He  is  now 
the  able  and  accomplished  editor  of  the  Pilot , Boston,  Mass. 

A nation’s  test. 

[Read  at  the  O’ConneU  Centennial  in  Boston,  on  August  6,  1875.] 

A nation’s  greatness  lies  in  men,  not  acres  ; 

One  master-mind  is  worth  a million  hands. 

No  kingly  robes  have  marked  the  planet-shakers. 

But  Samson-strength  to  burst  the  ages’  bands. 


748  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

The  might  of  empire  gives  no  crown  supernal — 

Athens  is  here,  but  where  is  Macedon  ? 

A dozen  lives  make  Greece  and  Rome  eternal, 

And  England’s  fame  might  safely  rest  on  one. 

Here  test  and  text  are  drawn  from  nature’s  preaching : 

Afric  and  Asia — half  the  rounded  earth — 

In  teeming  lives  the  solemn  truth  are  teaching 
That  insect-millions  may  have  human  birth. 

Sun-kissed  and  fruitful,  every  clod  is  breeding 
A petty  life,  too  small  to  reach  the  eye  : 

So  must  it  be,  with  no  man  thinking,  leading ; 

The  generations  creep  their  course  and  die. 

Hapless  the  lands,  and  doomed  amid  the  races, 

That  give  no  answer  to  this  royal  test ; 

Their  toiling  tribes  will  droop  ignoble  faces, 

Till  earth  in  pity  takes  them  back  to  rest. 

A vast  monotony  may  not  be  evil. 

But  God’s  light  tells  us  it  cannot  be  good ; 

Valley  and  hill  have  beauty,  but  the  level 
Must  bear  a shadeless  and  a stagnant  brood. 

I bring  the  touchstone,  motherland,  to  thee, 

And  test  thee  trembling,  fearing  thou  shouldst  fail 

If  fruitless,  sonless,  thou  wert  proved  to  be. 

Ah  ! what  would  love  and  memory  avail  ? 

Brave  land  ! God  has  blest  thee  ! 

Thy  strong  heart  I feel 
As  I touch  thee  and  test  thee, 

Dear  land  ! As  the  steel 
To  the  magnet  flies  upward,  so  rises  thy  breast 
With  a motherly  pride  to  the  touch  of  the  test. 

See  ! she  smiles  beneath  the  touchstone,  looking  on  her  distant 
youth, 

Looking  down  her  line  of  leaders  and  of  workers  for  the  truth. 

Ere  the  Teuton,  Norseman,  Briton  left  the  primal  woodland 
spring, 

When  their  rule  was  might  and  rapine,  and  their  law  a painted 
king; 


Miscellany. 


749 


When  the  sun  of  art  and  learning  still  was  in  the  Orient ; 

When  the  pride  of  Babylonia  under  Cyrus’  hand  was  shent ; 

When  the  Sphinx’s  introverted  eye  was  fresh  with  Egypt’s  guilt ; 

When  the  Persian  bowed  to  Athens ; when  the  Parthenon  was 
built ; 

When  the  Macedonian  climax  closed  the  commonwealths  of  Greece  ; 

When  the  wrath  of  Roman  manhood  burse  on  Tarquin  for  Lu- 
crece — 

Then  was  Erin  rich  in  knowledge,  thence  from  out  her  Ollamh’s 
store — 

Kenned  to-day  by  students  only — grew  her  ancient  Senchus  More  ; 

Then  were  reared  her  mighty  builders,  who  made  temples  to  the 
sun  ; 

There  they  stand — the  old  round-towers — showing  how  their  work 
was  done, 

Twice  a thousand  years  upon  them,  shaming  all  our  later  art — 

Warning  fingers  raised  to  tell  us  we  must  build  with  rev’rent  heart. 

Ah  ! we  call  thee  Mother  Erin  ! Mother  thou  in  right  of  years ; 

Mother  in  the  large  fruition  ; mother  in  the  joys  and  tears. 

All  thy  life  has  been  a symbol ; we  can  only  read  a part. 

God  will  flood  thee  yet  with  sunshine  for  the  woes  that  drench  thy 
heart. 

All  thy  life  has  been  symbolic  of  a human  mother’s  life ; 

Youth,  with  all  its  dreams,  has  vanished,  and  the  travail  and  the 
strife 

Are  upon  thee  in  the  present ; but  thy  work  until  to-day 

Still  has  been  for  truth  and  manhood,  and  it  shall  not  pass  away  ! 

Justice  lives,  though  judgment  lingers — angels’  feet  are  heavy 
shod — 

But  a planet’s  years  are  moments  in  th’  eternal  day  of  God. 


What  says  the  stranger  to  such  a vitality  ? 

What  says  the  statesman  to  this  nationality  ? 
Flung  on  the  shore  of  a sea  of  defeat, 

Hardly  the  swimmers  have  sprung  to  their  feet 
When  the  nations  are  thrilled  by  a clarion- word. 
And  Burke,  the  philosopher-statesman,  is  heard. 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


When  shall  his  equal  be  ? Down  from  the  stellar  height 
Sees  he  the  planet  and  all  on  its  girth — 

India,  Columbia,  and  Europe ; his  eagle-sight 
Sweeps  at  a glance  all  the  wrong  upon  earth. 

Races  or  sects  were  to  him  a profanity — 

Hindoo  and  Negro  and  Celt  were  as  one  ; 

Large  as  mankind  was  his  splendid  humanity, 

Large  in  its  record  the  work  he  has  done. 

What  need  to  mention  men  of  minor  note 

When  there  be  minds  that  all  the  heights  attain  ? 

What  school-boy  know*eth  not  the  hand  that  wrote 
“ Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  ?” 

What  man  that  speaketh  English  e’er  can  lift 
His  voice  ’mid  scholars  who  hath  missed  the  lore 

Of  Berkeley,  Curran,  Sheridan,  and  Swift, 

The  art  of  Foley,  and  the  songs  of  Moore  ? 

Grattan  and  Flood  and  Emmet — where  is  he 
That  hath  not  learned  respect  for  such  as  these  ? 

Who  loveth  humor  and  hath  yet  to  see 
Lover  and  Prout  and  Lever  and  Maclise  ? 

Great  men  grow  greater  by  the  lapse  of  time ; 

We  know  those  least  whom  we  have  seen  the  latest. 

And  they  ’mongst  those  whose  names  have  grown  sublime 
Who  worked  for  human  liberty  are  greatest. 

And  now  for  one  who  allied  will  to  work, 

And  thought  to  act,  and  burning  speech  to  thought ; 

Who  gained  the  prizes  that  were  seen  by  Burke. 

Burke  felt  the  wrong — O’Connell  felt,  and  fought. 

Ever  the  same — from  boyhood  up  to  death, 

His  race  was  crushed,  his  people  were  defamed  ; 

He  found  the  spark,  and  fanned  it  with  his  breath, 

And  fed  the  fire,  till  all  the  nation  flamed  ! 

He  roused  the  farms,  he  made  the  serf  a yeoman ; 

He  drilled  his  millions,  and  he  faced  the  foe  ; 

But  not  with  lead  or  steel  he  struck  the  foeman — 

Reason  the  sword,  and  human  right  the  blow  ! 


Miscellany. 


751 


He  fought  for  home,  but  no  land-limit  bounded 
O’Connell’s  faith,  nor  curbed  his  sympathies  ; 

All  wrong  to  liberty  must  be  confounded, 

Till  men  were  chainless  as  the  winds  and  seas. 

He  fought  for  faith,  but  with  no  narrow  spirit ; 

With  ceaseless  hand  the  bigot  laws  he  smote ; 

One  chart,  he  said,  all  mankind  should  inherit — 

The  right  to  worship  and  the  right  to  vote. 

Always  the  same,  but  yet  a glinting  prism  ; 

In  wit,  law,  statecraft  still  a master-hand  ; 

An  “ uncrowned  king,”  whose  people’s  love  was  chrism, 
His  title — Liberator  of  his  Land  ! 

“His  heart’s  in  Rome,  his  spirit  is  in  heaven” — 

So  runs  the  old  song  that  his  people  sing  ; 

A tall  round-tower  they  builded  in  Glasnevin, 

Fit  Irish  headstone  for  an  Irish  king  ! 


TO-DAY. 

Only  from  day  to  day 
The  life  of  a wise  man  runs  ; 

What  matter  if  seasons  far  away 
Have  gloom  or  have  double  suns  ? 

To  climb  the  unreal  path. 

We  stray  from  the  roadway  here  ; 

We  swim  the  rivers  of  wrath 
And  tunnel  the  hills  of  fear. 

Our  feet  on  the  torrent’s  brink, 

Our  eyes  on  the  cloud  afar, 

We  fear  the  things  we  think, 

Instead  of  the  things  that  are. 

Like  a tide  our  work  should  rise, 
Each  later  wave  the  best ; 

“ To-day  is  a king  in  disguise,” 
To-day  is  the  special  test. 


752 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Like  a sawyer’s  work  is  life — 
The  present  makes  the  flaw, 
And  the  only  field  for  strife 
Is  the  inch  before  the  saw. 


AUBREY  DE  YERE. 

Aubrey  de  Yere,  son  of  Sir  Aubrey  de  Yere,  was  bom  at  Curragh  Chase, 
county  of  Limerick,  Ireland,  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  present  century.  He  was 
educated  at  one  of  the  English  universities,  and  afterwards  made  a deep  study  of 
Irish  history  and  literature.  For  over  a third  of  a century  his  has  been  a busy, 
fruitful  pen.  His  chief  works  are  ‘ ‘ Alexander  the  Great,”  a dramatic  poem  ; 
“ Irish  Odes  and  other  Poems”  ; “ May  Carols”  ; “St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury,” 
a dramatic  poem  ; “The  Legends  of  St.  Patrick”  ; and  “The  Infant  Bridal 
and  other  Poems.”  Mr.  de  Yere  is  a convert  to  the  Catholic  faith.  He  is  one  of 
the  most  widely-known  and  highly-respected  Irish  writers  of  the  present  day. 

MAY. 

Creep  slowly  up  the  willow-wand, 

Young  leaves,  and  in  your  lightness 

Teach  us  that  spirits  which  despond 
May  wear  their  own  pure  brightness,, 

Into  new  sweetness  slowly  dip, 

0 May  ! advance,  yet  linger. 

Nor  let  the  ring  too  swiftly  slip 
Down  that  new-plighted  finger. 

Thy  bursting  blooms,  0 Spring  ! retard, 

While  thus  thy  raptures  press  on  ; 

How  many  a joy  is  lost  or  marred, 

How  many  a lovely  lesson  ! 

For  each  new  grace  conceded,  those, 

The  earlier  loved,  are  taken  ; 

In  death  their  eyes  must  violets  close 
Before  the  rose  can  waken. 

Ye  woods,  with  ice-threads  tingling  late. 

Where  late  we  heard  the  robin, 

Your  chants  that  hour  but  antedate 
When  autumn  winds  are  sobbing. 


Alisccllciny . 


753 


Ye  gummy  buds,  in  silken  sheath, 

Hang  back,  content  to  glisten ; 

Hold  in,  0 Earth  ! thy  charmed  breath ; 
Thou  air,  be  still,  and  listen  ! 

THE  CONSTELLATION  OF  THE  PLOUGH. 

Type  of  celestial  labor,  toil  divine. 

That  nightly  downward  from  the  glistening  skie* 
Showerest  thy  light  on  these  expectant  eyes  ! 
Around  thee  in  their  stations  ever  shine 
Full  many  a radiant  shape  and  emblemed  sign — 
Swords,  sceptres,  crowns,  bright  tresses,  galaxies 
Of  all  that  soaring  fancy  can  devise, 

Yet  none,  methinks,  so  truly  great  as  thine. 

On,  ever  on  ! while  He  who  guides  thee  flings 
His  golden  grain  along  the  azure  way, 

Do  thou  thy  sleepless  work,  and,  toiling,  say: 

“ 0 men  ! so  sedulous  in  trivial  things, 

Why  faint  amid  your  loftier  labors  ? Why 
Forget  the  starry  seed  and  harvests  of  the  sky  ? ” 


SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  was  bom  at  Curragh  Chase,  county  of  Limerick,  in 
1788,  and  died  in  1846.  His  chief  works  are:  “Mary  Tudor,”  a drama; 
“Julian,  the  Apostate,”  a drama  ; “The  Duke  of  Veronica,”  a drama  ; and  a 
volume  of  excellent  “ Sonnets.”  He  was  a most  estimable  Irish  gentleman. 

COLUMBUS. 

He  was  a man  whom  danger  could  not  daunt, 

Nor  sophistry  perplex,  nor  pain  subdue — 

A stoic,  reckless  of  the  world’s  vain  taunt. 

And  steeled  the  path  of  honor  to  pursue  ; 

So,  when  by  all  deserted,  still  he  knew 
How  best  to  soothe  the  heart-sick,  or  confront 
Sedition,  schooled  with  equal  eye  to  view 
The  frowns  of  grief  and  the  base  pangs  of  want. 


754 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland, 


But  when  he  saw  that  promised  land  arise 
In  all  its  rare  and  bright  varieties, 

Lovelier  than  fondest  fancy  ever  trod. 

Then  softening  nature  melted  in  his  eyes  ; 

He  knew  his  fame  was  full,  and  blessed  his  God, 
And  fell  upon  his  face  and  kissed  the  virgin  sod  ! 


/ 


REV.  BROTHER  AZARIAS. 

Rev.  Brother  Azarias,  the  learned  Professor  of  Philosophy  and  English 
Literature  in  Rock  Hill  College,  Maryland,  is  a true  Celt.  His  “ Essay  on  a 
Philosophy  of  Literature  ” is  an  excellent  work.  Though  more  of  the  philosopher 
and  critic  than  poet,  he  has,  nevertheless,  thrown  off  some  very  pretty  pieces 
during  his  leisure  moments.  The  following  is  culled  from  his  sonnets  on  the 
great  English  poets. 


MILTON. 

Into  the  heaven  of  heavens  I have  presumed, 

An  earthly  guest,  and  drawn  Empyreal  fire. 

Paradise  Lost,  b.  vii. 

Irreverent  Milton  ! bold  I deem  thy  flight ; 
Unsanctified,  unbidden,  thou  didst  wing 
Thy  pathless  way  off  tow’rd  the  secret  spring 
Of  God’s  decrees,  and  read  them  not  aright; 

Thou  sought  to  do  what  no  man  mortal  might, 

Still  thence  a speech  majestical  didst  bring. 

And  there  o’erheard  some  angels  whispering 
Of  Eden’s  bliss,  and  from  thy  lofty  height 
Surveyed  all  starry  space  both  far  and  wide. 

And  saw  hell’s  deepest  depths  and  tortures  dire. 

And  viewed  the  darkling  works  of  demon  pride. 

And  in  the  glowings  of  poetic  fire, 

What  time  thy  heart  felt  age’s  chilly  hand, 

Embodied  all  in  language  stately,  grand. 


Miscellany 


755 


REV.  CHARLES  WOLFE. 

Charles  Wolfe  was  born  at  Dublin  in  1791,  and  died  at  Cork  in  1823.  He 
belonged  to  the  same  Irish  family  as  the  celebrated  Gen.  Wolfe  who  took  Quebec. 
He  wrote  little  ; indeed,  his  fame  rests  on  the  “Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore, ’’ 
which  is,  perhaps,  as  widely  known  as  any  other  production  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. A minister  of  the  Anglican  Establishment,  Rev.  Mr.  Wolfe  was  an 
amiable,  scholarly  man. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a drum  was  heard,  not  a funeral  note. 

As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O’er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning — 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam’s  misty  light. 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a word  of  sorrow  ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollow’d  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smooth’d  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o’er  his  head. 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they’ll  talk  of  the  spirit  that’s  gone. 

And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 

But  little  he’ll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  his  comrades  have  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done. 

When  the  bell  toll’d  the  hour  for  retiring  ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 


756  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland . 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 
We  carved  not  a line,  we  raised  not  a stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

William  Collins  is  a Catholic,  and  a native  of  Ireland.  A poet  <*f  rare 
gifts,  he  enjoys  a wide  and  well-deserved  reputation.  In  connection  with  his 
friend,  J.  C.  Curtin,  he  edits  the  New  York  Irish  Globe,  of  which  he  is  one  of 
the  founders  and  proprietors,  Mr.  Curtin  being  the  other. 

THE  MARINER’S  EVENING  HYMN. 

Evening’s  shadows  fall  around  us, 

And  the  sun  sets  on  the  sea, 

With  thy  love,  0 God  ! surround  us. 

Trustingly  we  pray  to  thee ; 

Sin,  with  all  its  snares,  has  bound  us. 

Thou  canst  cleanse  and  make  us  free. 

Darkness  falls  upon  the  ocean, 

And  the  waves  in  anger  leap, 

And  our  barque,  with  troubled  motion. 

Heaves  and  trembles  on  the  deep  ; 

But  our  hearts,  with  true  devotion, 

Hearer  to  thy  footstool  creep. 

Though  the  winds  in  wrath  are  blowing. 

Thou  the  tempest  can  command. 

Safe  beneath  thy  guidance  going, 

We  shall  hail  the  welcome  land ; 

And  though  fierce  the  waves  are  flowing. 

Power  and  strength  are  in  thy  hand. 

Father,  as  the  night  descending 
Hides  the  sun’s  last  golden  ray, 

Hear  our  hearts  and  voices  blending 
As  to  thee  we  fondly  pray, 

That  thou,  love  and  grace  extending, 

All  our  sins  shalt  wash  away. 


Miscellany . 


757 


T.  E.  HOWARD. 

T.  E.  Howard,  M.A.,  LL.B.,  Professor  of  History  and  English  Literature  in 
the  University  of  Notre  Dame,  Indiana,  is  a native  of  Michigan,  but  is  truly 
Irish  by  blood  and  faith  and  sympathy.  Aside  from  several  minor  works,  he 
has  published  a highly  meritorious  volume  of  essays  entitled,  “Excelsior;  or. 
Essays  on  Politeness  and  Education.”  Some  of  his  poems  are  real  gems. 

CHIMES. 

Beauty’s  spirit  lingers 
O’er  the  spot  I love  ; 

Well  I know  that  angel  fingers 
Paint  the  blue  above ; 

Well  I know  they  listen 
To  the  Vesper  song 
Where  the  silent  planets  glisten 
As  they  float  along* — 

Listen  to  the  chiming. 

Praises  of  the  Lamb 
As  they  tremble  from  the  rhyming 
Bells  of  Notre  Dame.1 

Swell,  ye  sounds  caressing, 

On  the  midnight  air, 

All  this  silence  bathed  in  blessing 
W ake  to  God  and  prayer ; 

Wearied  man  is  sleeping 
From  the  toilsome  day, 

Tune  the  soft  dreams  o’er  him  creeping ; 

Music,  watch  and  pray  ! 

So  the  forest  looming 
On  the  distant  calm 
Echoes  back  your  silvery  booming, 

Bells  of  Notre  Dame  ! 

When  the  morning  lightens 
On  the  eastern  sky, 

And  the  spire-top  glows  and  brightens 
As  the  sun  rolls  nigh, 

1 The  church  attached  to  the  famous  Catholic  University  of  Notre  Dame,  Indiana.  It 
is  said  to  possess  the  best  chime  of  bells  in  America. 


75S 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland L 


Shed  your  peals  to  duty 
O’er  the  earth  impearled. 

Give  to  sparkling  morning  beauty. 
Tongue  to  rouse  the  world, 

As  your  songs  of  gladness. 

Matin  hymn,  and  psalm, 

Wake  our  souls  and  cheer  their  sadness. 
Bells  of  Notre  Dame  ! 


RICHARD  DALTON  WILLIAMS. 

Richard  Dalton  Williams  was  an  Irish  Catholic,  and  a poet  of  high  merit. 
He  was  born  in  1822,  came  to  the  United  States,  and  died  at  Thibodeaux,  La.,  in 
1862.  “We  cannot  recall  anything  in  English  literature  that,  in  tender  pathos 
and  beauty  of  expression,  surpasses  ‘ The  Dying  Girl.’  Williams,  while  a medi- 
cal student  at  Dublin,  wrote  this  exouisite  poem  after  a visit  to  one  of  the 
hospitals.”2 

THE  DYING  GIRL. 

From  a Munster  vale  they  brought  her. 

From  the  pure  and  balmy  air, 

An  Ormond  peasant’s  daughter, 

With  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair* 

They  brought  her  to  the  city. 

And  she  faded  slowly  there  ; 

Consumption  has  no  pity 
For  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

When  I saw  her  first  reclining 
Her  lips  were  moved  in  prayer. 

And  the  setting  sun  was  shining 
On  her  loosened  golden  hair. 

When  our  kindly  glances  met  her. 

Deadly  brilliant  was  her  eye. 

And  she  said  that  she  was  better, 

While  we  knew  that  she  must  die* 

She  speaks  of  Munster  valleys, 

The  patron,  dance,  and  fair. 

And  her  thin  hand  feebly  dallies 
With  her  scattered  golden  hair. 

* “ Popular  History  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  United  States/’  Appendix  . 


Miscellany . 


759 


When  silently  we  listened 
To  her  breath  with  quiet  care, 

Her  eyes  with  wonder  glistened, 

And  she  asked  us  what  was  there. 

The  poor  thing  smiled  to  ask  it, 

And  her  pretty  mouth  laid  bare, 

Like  gems  within  a casket, 

A string  of  pearlets  rare. 

We  said  that  we  were  trying. 

By  the  gushing  of  her  blood, 

And  the  time  she  took  in  sighing, 

To  know  if  she  were  good. 

Well,  she  smiled  and  chatted  gaily. 
Though  we  saw,  in  mute  despair. 

The  hectic  brighter  daily, 

And  the  death-dew  on  her  hair. 

And  oft  her  wasted  fingers, 

Beating  time  upon  the  bed. 

O’er  some  old  tune  she  lingers. 

And  she  bows  her  golden  head. 

At  length  the  harp  is  broken. 

And  the  spirit  in  its  strings. 

As  the  last  decree  is  spoken. 

To  its  source  exulting  springs. 
Descending  swiftly  from  the  skies. 

Her  guardian  angel  came  ; 

He  struck  God’s  lightning  from  her  eyes, 
And  bore  him  back  the  flame. 

Before  the  sun  had  risen, 

Through  the  lark-loved  morning  air. 
Her  young  soul  left  its  prison, 

Undefiled  by  sin  or  care. 

I stood  beside  the  couch  in  tears, 

Where  pale  and  calm  she  slept. 

And  though  I’ve  gazed  on  death  for  years, 
I blush  not  that  I wept. 


760 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


I checked  with  effort  pity’s  sighs, 
And  left  the  matron  there 
To  close  the  curtains  of  her  eyes. 
And  bind  her  golden  hair. 


REV.  FRANCIS  MAHONY, 

The  Rev,  Francis  Mahony,  better  known  by  Ms  non  de  plume  of  “ Father 
Prout,”  was  born  at  Cork  in  1800.  He  made  his  studies  at  the  Propaganda,  was 
ordained  priest,  but  devoted  his  life  to  literary  pursuits.  He  died  a few  years 
ago.  The  “ Bells  of  Shandon  ” is  one  of  the  “ things  of  beauty  ” that  came  from 
his  graceful  pen. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection 
I often  think  of  those  Shandon  bells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I ponder  where’er  I wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee. 

With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I’ve  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a clime  in. 

Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine; 

While  at  a glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate, 

But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  like  thine ; 

For  memory,  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I’ve  heard  bells  tolling  “ old  Adrian’s  Mole  ” in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 

And  cymbals  glorious  swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame  ; 

But  thy  sounds  are  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 

Flings  o’er  the  Tiber  pealing  solemnly. 


Miscellany. 


761 


Oh  ! the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

There’s  a bell  in  Moscow,  while  on  tower  and  kiosko 
In  St.  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 

And  loud  in  air  calls  men  to  prayer 

From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom  I freely  grant  them  ; 

But  there’s  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me : 

’Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 


DEAREST  MARY. 

Love  me,  dearest  Mary  ! 

No  honey-speech  I own, 

Nor  talisman  to  win  you,  save 
This  true,  fond  heart  alone. 

I cannot  offer  rank  or  gold — 

Such  things  I never  knew — 

But  all  one  human  heart  can  hold 
Of  love,  I’ll  give  to  you , 

Mary ! 

Of  love.  I’ll  give  to  you. 

For  you  were  aye  unto  me, 

From  boyhood  to  this  hour, 

That  sweet  to  which  all  bright  thoughts  clung 
Like  bees  around  a flower. 

The  whisp’ring  tree,  the  silent  moon, 

The  bud  beneath  the  dew, 

All,  by  the  fairy  hand  of  love. 

Were  linked  with  thoughts  of  you , 

Mary  ! 

Were  linked  with  thoughts  of  you. 


762 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


Were  ever  linked  with  you,  love, 

And  when  I rose  to  part 
From  scenes  that  long  had  nursed  my  soul, 
From  many  a kind  old  heart, 

Though  sad  to  earth  and  vale  and  stream 
And  friends  to  bid  adieu, 

Yet  still  my  soul  in  silence  wept 
Until  I thought  of  you , 

Mary ! 

Until  I thought  of  you  ! 


Oh  ! since,  ’mid  life’s  unquiet, 

Through  many  a wintry  storm, 

What  lay  like  hope  within  my  breast,  - 
And  kept  its  currents  warm  ? 

What,  when  the  night  shone  gemmed  with  stars, 
Was  brighter  than  the  blue. 

And  sweeter  than  my  toil- earn’d  sleep  ? 

The  memory  of  you , 

Mary  ! 

The  memory  of  you  ! , 


And  now  I have  won  a home,  dear, 

Not  very  grand  or  high, 

But  still  with  quite  enough  to  meet 
The  day  that’s  passing  by ; 

With  one  bright  room  where  we  might  sit. 
And  have  a friend  or  two — 

Ay  ! bright,  I say,  for  oh  ! ’tis  lit 
With  hope  ’twill  yet  see  you , 

Mary  ! 

With  hope  ’twill  yet  see  you  ! 


Then  love  me,  dearest  Mary  ! 

No  honey-speech  I own, 

Nor  talisman  to  win  you,  save 
This  true,  fond  heart  alone* 


M iscellany. 


763 


I cannot  offer  rank  or  gold — 

Such  things  I never  knew — 

But  all  one  human  heart  can  hold 
Of  love  I’ll  give  to  you, 

Mary  ! 

Such  love  I’ll  give  to  you  ! 

— M.  MacDermot. 


SIR  CAHIR  O’DOHERTY.1 

By  the  Spanish  plum’d  hat  and  costly  attire, 

And  the  dark  eye  that’s  blended  of  midnight  and  fire, 
And  the  bearing  and  stature  so  princely  and  tall, 

Sir  Cahir  you’ll  know  in  the  midst  of  them  all. 

Like  an  oak  on  the  land,  like  a ship  on  the  sea. 

Like  the  eagle  above,  strong  and  haughty  is  he ; 

In  the  greenness  of  youth,  yet  lie’s  crowned,  as  his  due, 
With  the  fear  of  the  false  and  the  love  of  the  true. 

Right  fiercely  he  swoops  on  their  plundering  hordes ; 
Right  proudly  he  dares  them,  the  proud  English  lords  ! 
And  darkly  you’ll  trace  him  by  many  a trail 
From  the  hills  of  the  North  to  the  heart  of  the  Pale 

By  red  field,  ruined  keep,  and  fire-shrouded  hall. 

By  the  tramp  of  the  charger  o’er  buttress  and  wall. 

By  the  courage  that  springs  in  the  breach  of  despair, 
Like  the  bound  of  the  lion  erect  from  his  lair. 

O’Neill  and  O’Donnell,  Maguire  and  the  rest. 

Have  sheathed  the  sabre  and  lowered  the  crest ; 

O’Kane  is  now  crushed,  and  MacMahon  is  bound. 

And  Magennis  slinks  after  the  foe  like  his  hound. 


3 Sir  Cahir  O’Doherty,  son  of  Sir  John  O’Doherty,  chief  of  Innishowen,  was  born  in 
1587,  and  was  killed,  fighting  against  the  English,  in  1608.  He  was  described  as  “a  man 
to  be  marked  amongst  a thousand— a man  of  the  loftiest  and  proudest  bearing  in  Ulster. 
His  Spanish  hat,  with  the  heron’s  plume,  was  too  often  the  terror  of  his  enemies  and  the 
rallying-point  of  his  friends  not  to  bespeak  the  O’Doherty.”  He  was  the  last  of  the  Ulster 
chieftains.  After  his  death  the  English  did  as  they  had  done  with  other  Irish  chiefs— 
they  seized  hi3  castle  and  lands,  and  the  robbers  still  possess  them. 


;6  4 


The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Ireland. 


But  high  and  untrimmed,  o’er  the  valley  and  height 
Soars  the  proud,  sweeping  pinion,  so  young  in  its  flight ; 
The  toil  and  the  danger  are  brav’d  all  alone 
By  the  fierce-taloned  falcon  of  old  Innishowen. 

And  thus  runs  his  story : he  fought  and  he  fell, 

Young,  honored,  and  brave — so  the  seanachies  tell — 

The  foremost  of  those  who  have  guarded  “ the  green,” 
When  men  wrote  their  names  with  the  sword  and  the  sJcian. 

— Majry  Eva  Kelly. 


MARY. 

Mary  ! sweet  name  revered  above, 
And  oh  ! how  dear  below  ! 

In  it  are  hope  and  holy  love. 

And  blessings  from  it  flow. 

Mary  ! what  music  in  that  sound  ! 
Pure  lips  breathe  it  at  even  ; 

“ Ave  Maria,”  sings  earth  round. 

And  souls  look  up  to  Heaven  ! 

Mary  ! bright  angels  speak  that  name 
With  rev’rence,  soft  and  low  ; 

And  God  Himself,  ever  the  same. 

His  love  for  it  did  show. 

Mary  ! to  me  that  name  recalls 
The  Queen  who  reigns  above, 

An  angel  sister  in  Heaven’s  halls, 
And  one,  worthy  of  love. 

Mary  ! bright  star  of  heavenly  rest, 

I love  thy  name  and  thee  ; 

Mother  purest,  Virgin  ever  blest. 
Look  down  and  pray  for  me. 


J.  O’K.  M. 


M iscellany. 


76  5 


THE  BIRTHDAY  GREETING. 

Ma  douce  amie,  I greet  thee, 

I11  this  merry  month  of  May, 

So  blooming,  blest,  and  lovely — 

Suited  for  thy  own  birthday. 

May  bright  skies  e’er  shine  o’er  thee, 

And  choice  graces  strew  thy  way ; 

Rejoice — may  angels  bless  thee 
Yearly  on  thy  own  birthday. 

.During  this  gay  month  of  flowers, 

Of  the  dear,  spotless  Queen  of  May, 

How  sweet  to  think  of  those  bright  hours 
Ere  shadows  dim  life’s  sunlit  way  ! 
Round  thy  path  white  lilies  twine, 

True  emblems  of  that  soul  of  thine, 
Yearning  to  grow  e’er  more  divine. 


J.  O’K.  M. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


Absolute,  Sir  Anthony,  321. 
Adventures  of  Father  O’Grady,  712. 
After  the  Battle,  516. 

Age,  103. 

Aileen,  418, 

A £ay  Sermon,  742. 

A Meditation  upon  a Broomstick,  176. 
A Nation  Once  Again,  447. 

A Nation’s  Test,  748. 

A New  Life,  745. 

Angel’s  Whisper,  741. 

Am  I remembered  in  Erin  ? 666. 

An  Answer  to  a Friend’s  Question, 
130. 

An  Excellent  New  Song,  132. 

A Picture  of  Suffering  Ireland,  370. 
A Place  in  thy  Memory,  Dearest,  391* 
A Quaker  in  a Stage-Coach,  111. 
Archbishop  Murray,  500. 

A Small  Catechism,  658. 

A Treatise  on  Good  Manners,  177. 
Azarias,  Brother,  754. 

Banim,  John,  412. 

Barbarities  of  Cromwell  in  Ireland, 
714. 

Before  the  Battle,  515. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing 
Young  Charms,  514. 

Bells  of  Shandon,  760. 

Benburb,  Battle  of,  699. 

Birthday  Greeting,  765. 

Boru,  Brian,  Account  of  his  Reign, 
53. 

Breasting  the  World,  747. 

Bride  of  Mallow,  444. 

Brodar,  70. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  755. 


Burke,  Edmund,  294. 

Burke,  Father  T.  N.,  717. 

Canadian  Boat  Song,  521. 

Carolan,  235. 

Catholics  of  Ireland,  Speech  on,  459. 
Ceasair,  49. 

Chimes,  757. 

Chinese  Letters,  239. 

Clare’s  Dragoons,  450. 

Clontarf , Battle  of,  69. 

Collins,  William,  756. 

Columbkille,  33. 

Columbus,  753. 

Constellation  of  the  Plough,  753. 
Criticism  on  England,  246. 

Davis,  Thomas,  441. 

Dearest  Mary,  761. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country,  520. 
Death  of  Orr,  713. 

Death  of  the  Homeward  Bound,  661. 
Declaration  of  Irish  Rights,  Speech 
on,  338. 

Definition  of  a Gentleman,  104. 
Deserted  Village,  The,  197. 

Dialogue  between  St.  Columbkille 
and  Cormac,  30. 

Dialogue  between  Sir  A.  Absolute 
and  Mrs.  Malaprop,  321. 

Doyle,  Right  Rev.  Dr.,  357. 

Drapier  Letters,  The,  167. 

Dry  be  that  Tear,  320. 

Duffy,  C.  G.,  742. 

Dying  Girl,  758. 

Education,  375. 

Edwin  and  Angelina,  224. 


768 


General  Index. 


Elegy  on  a Mad  Dog,  230. 

Elegy  on  Demar.  the  Miser,  128. 
Elegy  on  Madame  Blaize,  229. 
Epigram,  134. 

Epitaph,  134. 

Epitaphs,  231. 

Epicurean,  The,  525. 

Erin,  O Erin  ! 15 
Essays  of  Goldsmith,  232. 

Fare  thee  Well,  my  Native  Dell,  393. 
Fidelia ; or,  the  Dutiful  Daughter, 
109. 

First  Extract  from  “ The  Annals  of 
the  Four  Masters,”  48. 

Fontenoy,  448. 

Fourth  Extract  from  “The  Annals 
of  the  Four  Masters,”  87. 

Francis,  Sir  Philip,  274. 

Glance  at  Westminster  Abbey,  250. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  192. 

Good  Manners,  Essay  on,  177. 
Grattan,  Henry,  331. 

Green  above  the  Red,  455. 

Griffin,  Gerald,  383. 

Grub  Street  Elegy,  125. 

Gulliver’s  Travels,  148. 

Home  Memories,  694. 

Howard,  T.  E.,  757. 

How  Kings  Reward,  248. 

I Love  my  Love  in  the  Morning,  388. 
I Love  Thee,  Mary,  665. 

Ireland  by  Moonlight,  692. 

I saw  thy  Form  in  Youthful  Prime, 
517. 

It  is  Easy  to  Die,  665. 

It  is  the  Shannon’s  Stream,  394. 

Jacques  Cartier,  662. 

J.  K.  L.,  Letters  of,  365. 

Junius,  Letters  of,  275. 

Kane,  Sir  Robert,  76, 

Kavanaghs,  85. 


Laetitia  and  Daphne  : A Tale,  100. 
Lecture  on  the  Chief  Existing  Irish 
Books,  630. 

Let  Erin  Remember,  513. 

Letters  of  Archbishop  MacHale,  675. 
Letters  of  Dr.  Doyle,  376. 

Letters  of  Junius,  277. 

Letters  of  Goldsmith,  257. 

Letters  of  Griffin,  407. 

Letters  of  Banim,  432. 

Letters  of  O’Connell  to  Dr.  MacHale, 
479. 

Letters  of  Steele  to  his  Wife,  114. 
Letters  of  Swift,  181. 

Letter  to  a Noble  Lord,  306. 

Letter  to  the  Archbishop  of  Aix,  311. 
Like  the  Oak  by  the  Fountain,  393. 
Louis  XYI.  and  Marie  Antoinette, 
304. 

Love’s  Longings,  445. 

Lover,  Samuel,  741. 

MacBrien,  82. 

MacCarthy,  83. 

MacCoughlan,  82. 

MacDermot,  79. 

MacGillapatrick,  84. 

MacGeoghegan,  84. 

MacNamara,  87. 

MacHale,  Archbishop,  670. 
MacMahon,  76. 

Magennis,  78. 

Maguire,  75. 

Mahony,  Francis  (“Father  Prout”), 
760. 

Malaprop,  Mrs.,  321. 

Mariner’s  Evening  Hymn,  756. 

Marie  Antoinette,  305. 

Mary,  764. 

May,  752. 

McGee,  Thomas  D’Arcy,  653. 
Meditation  upon  a Broomstick,  176. 
Milton,  754. 

Mina,  744. 

Moore,  Thomas,  502. 

Mrs.  Malaprop,  321. 

Murray,  Archbishop,  500. 


General  Index. 


769 


My  Land,  446. 

My  Spirit  i3  Gay,  389. 

Nationality,  452. 

New  Song  on  Wood’s  Halfpence, 
132. 

O’Beirne,  79. 

O’Boyle  76. 

O’Brien,  81. 

O Carroll,  82. 

0 Clery.  Michael,  39. 

O'Connell,  Daniel,  463. 

O'Connell.  Daniel,  Sketch  of,  by 
Sheil,  497. 

O’Curry  Eugene,  627. 

O’Connor,  79. 

O'Dempsey,  85. 

O’Doherty,  76. 

O'Doherty,  Sir  Cahii:  a Poem,  763. 
O'Donnell,  First  of  the  Name,  62, 
75 

0 Driscoll,  84. 

O Dunn,  85. 

0 Dwyer,  82. 

0 Gallagher,  76. 

Oh  ! for  a Steed  ! 453. 

O Kane,  Sketch  of  the  Family,  76, 
note. 

O'Kane,  Cooey,  77,  note. 

O Kane,  Gen.  Daniel,  78,  note. 
O’Kelly,  80. 

Old  Times,  395. 

O’Loughlin,  81. 

O'Madden,  80. 

O’Mahony,  83. 

O'Murray,  Auliffe,  45. 

O’Neill,  75,  78,  87. 

O’Neil1,  Hugh,  85. 

On  Music,  517. 

O’Reilly,  John  Boyle,  748. 

O’Rourke,  78. 

O’Sullivan,  83. 

Oh  ! the  Shamrock,  518. 

0 Thou  who  Driest  the  Mourner’s 
Tear  ! 523. 

Parties  in  Ireland,  365. 


Penal  Days,  456. 

Philippic  against  Flood,  349. 
Poem  on  the  Death  of  Swift,  135. 


Quaker  in  a Stage-Coach.  Ill 

Rebuke  to  the  Ignorant  Know-NotV 
ings.  667. 

•Record  of  Columbkille’s  Churches, 
27. 

Remains  of  an  Old  Irish  Poem  35. 
Remember  the  Glories  of  Brian  the 
Brave,  512. 

Retaliation  : a Poem.  219. 

Rich  anc.  Rare  were  the  Gems  she 
Wore,  510. 

Right  Road,  457. 

Reply  to  Corry.  353. 


Sadiier.  Mrs.  J.,  690. 

Savage,  John,  744. 

Scandal-Bearers  Bad-hearted,  106. 
Scene  in  a Galway  School-room,  695. 
Second  Extract  from  “The  Annals 
of  the  Four  Masters,”  50. 

Sheil,  Richard  Lalor,  483. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  314. 
Soggarth  Aroon,  417. 

Spectator  Club,  95. 

Speech  on  the  Declaration  of  .Irish 
Rights,  338. 

Speech  against  Flood,  349. 

Speech  in  Reply  to  Bellew,  468. 
Speech  against  Corry,  346. 

Speech  against  Pitt’s  Income-Tax, 
325. 

Speech  on  the  Irish  Rebellion,  324. 
Speech  on  American  Taxation,  300. 
Speech  on  the  Irish  Catholics  and 
their  Religion,  485. 

Speech  on  the  Catholic  Question, 
348. 

Steele,  Sir  Richard,  89. 

Study,  459. 

Swift,  Jonathan,  117. 


77  o 


General  Index. 


TLe  Birthday  Greeting,  765 
The  Catholic  Religion,  373 
The  Dean  s Manner  of  Living,  131. 
The  Death  ot  Swift  : a Poem,  135. 
The  Deserted  Village  : a Poem,  197. 
The  Irish  People  in  their  Relation  to 
Catholicity..  719. 

The  Traveller  : a Poem,  208. 

The  Irish  as  a Religious  People,  368. 
The  Song  of  Trust.  36. 

The  Praise  ot  St.  Bridget,  37. 

The  Battle  of  Benburb,  699. 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters,  509  ; in 
Irish,  675. 

The  Students  Adieu,  364. 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara’s 
Halls,  511. 

The  Song  of  Fionnuala,  513. 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer,  519. 

The  Minstrel  Boy,  520. 

The  Reconciliation,  41S. 

The  Epicurean  : a Tale,  525. 

The  Stolen  Sheep  : a Tale,  420. 

The  Bird  let  Loose,  524. 

The  Dying  Celt  to  his  American 
Son,  656. 

The  Celtic  Cross,  657. 

The  Spectator  Club,  95. 

The  Sister  of  Charity,  396. 

The  Shanty,  659. 

The  Choice  of  Friends,  398. 

The  Blessed  Virgin’s  Knight,  663. 
The  Village  Ruin  : a Tale,  399. 


The  Catholic  Church  and  the  Irish 
in  America,  668. 

Third  Extract  from  “ The  Annals  of 
the  Four  Masters,'’  73. 

This  World  is  all  a Fleeting  Show, 

522. 

Thou  art,  O God  ! 523. 

Though  the  Last  Glimpse  of  Erin 
with  Sorrow  I See,  507. 

Tipperary,  458. 

To  Miss  M.  Sadlier,  660. 

To-day,  751. 

To  Stella,  131. 

To  the  Blessed  Virgin,  398. 

To  the  Recording  Angel,  321. 

Vere,  Aubrey  de,  752. 

Vere,  Sir  Aubrey  de,  753. 

Voyage  to  Lilliput,  148. 

Voyage  to  Brobdignag,  157. 

Wakefield,  Family  of,  236. 

Were  not  the  Sinful  Mary’s  Tears, 
521. 

Whang,  the  Miller,  254. 

When  Cormac  Came  to  St.  Columb* 
kille  : a Poem,  38. 

When  he  who  Adores  Thee,  511. 
Williams,  R.  D.,  758. 

Wolfe,  Charles,  755. 

You  never  bade  me  Hope,  392. 


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